


One Human Thought

by tessiete



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Jedi Culture & Tradition (Star Wars), Saved from Slavery AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:48:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24329809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: Negotiations on Vollinar VI began poorly, and closed accordingly, despite Qui-Gon’s best efforts at guiding the opposing factions to an amicable resolution. Brokering a trade deal, he privately lamented, was nothing like negotiating a peace. There was no righteous indignation to quell, no vendettas to appease, no idealism, no morality. There was only greed.He takes the boy because, in the end, it’s the only thing to do.**COMPLETE** (finally)
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 417
Kudos: 511
Collections: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan May the Fourth be With You Prompt Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeaRex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRex/gifts), [Pomiar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomiar/gifts).



> Why, scruffy, why do you hate me? *** May the fourth prompt?

He takes the boy because, in the end, it’s the only thing to do. 

Negotiations on Vollinar VI began poorly, and have closed accordingly, despite Qui-Gon’s best efforts at guiding the opposing factions of the Saurian Alliance, and the High Vollis Court to an amicable resolution. Brokering a trade deal, he privately lamented, was nothing like negotiating a peace. There was no righteous indignation to quell, no vendettas to appease, no idealism, no morality. There was only greed.

Everything about the situation had been immeasurably tedious. Day to day, much ado was made over minor issues, which one side would insist were absolutely crucial to their mandate, while the other belittled and dismissed, only to find their positions reversed the following cycle. Each proposal was scoured, and eviscerated on the floor, leaving notaries to frantically cobble together counter-offers ever more legally binding, and miserly to put forth in their predecessor’s place. For so many weeks, it felt as though they were merely inching along with their eyes closed in willful ignorance, stumbling over every crack and divot in their path, and cursing the dark for conspiring against them. It was exhausting. Pandering had never been his strong suit, and only diligence in his meditation had seen him through the worst of it without resorting to intimidation or physical coercion. These things, he knew - though he did not quite _feel_ \- would have been particularly unbecoming of a Jedi. The egos of politicians are fragile things, after all, and every word had to be carefully measured before one spoke so as not to cause offence. Which was precisely his purpose in attending the talks. To mediate. To assuage. To secure fair compromise, and soothe the ruffled feathers, and battered pride of diplomats on both sides of the table. 

It is eminently unfair that, in the end, it is his own spirit which has come away most injured. The wounds of politicians can be remedied with the judicious application of clauses and amendments, and the assurance of a mutually profitable venture. But a virtuous nature cannot be healed while the poison of injustice and villainy still infects its wounds. And Vollinar VI has injustice and villainy to spare.

For it is a colony built on the backs of slaves.

He is no stranger to this particular transgression against life. There are slaves on Coruscant, on the lower levels, beneath the financial concourse, outside the Senatorial district, in bars, and nightclubs; and on the upper levels where money buys ignorance, there is sentient flesh to be bought and sold. It is invisible in the Core, and frowned upon in the Mid Rim, but it is so common as to be banal in the Outer Rim. Vollinar is no outlier. He knew this. He was prepared. And he has not come to free slaves.

But the boy they send to him after lastmeal on the first day is so pitiable that before the night is out, he knows he will not be leaving this dreadful rock alone. 

It’s at the conclusion of arbitration, when all and sundry are well lubricated, and celebrating their superiority that he makes the case for his own acquisition.

“The boy you sent to me the first night,” he opens, smiling and easy, downing the remainder of his _frizz_ and reaching for another. “What has become of him? He was most meticulous in his service, and I had expected to enjoy his company again before our deliberations were concluded. Yet, he remains elusive.”

“Ah!” Chortles Yiurel Hosh, the first counsel of the Vollis Court. He is heavy-set, and good-natured, taking much pleasure in all the delights of life, whether they are his by rights, or not. In another life, Qui-Gon might have liked him. It’s a thought that disturbs the Jedi by its truth, stealing something of comfort and self-assurance, and fuels his determination to take something back. “Master Jinn, you demon! You speak of Obi-Wan,” the legate says. “Yes, he is a sweet little thing, isn’t he? Though rather young. I had not thought…” Here, he eyes Qui-Gon speculatively, the suggestion of an obscene act in the gesticulation of his hands. The Jedi lets him think what he likes, and Hosh continues, convinced by his own indecency. “However, had I known he’d found your particular favour I would have been careful to set him to your service again. Might have seen us through these blasted treaty negotiations a few days earlier if you’d been better satisfied, eh?”

“Quite,” Qui-Gon agrees. He smiles, but his guts writhe in protest. “But you weren’t to know. Shame.”

He sips at his drink and surveys the room, not willing to arouse Hosh’s suspicions by appearing too interested. But the man seems to see nothing in it, in too high a mood to begrudge anyone their vices after his own have been so recently sated.

“Well, how about an enthusiastic send off?” he offers.

But Qui-Gon grimaces. He deposits his empty glass on the tray of a circulating concubine, and brushes his hands clean of crumbs.

“Unfortunately, my friend, I am short of time. My transport leaves on the hour, and I only stopped by to pass on my congratulations.” He claps Hosh on the shoulder in the spirit of brotherly camaraderie, and smiles. “And my thanks for your kind hospitality.”

Hosh’s face falls, the disappointment of losing a witness to his triumph dropping down upon his shoulders, and bowing his spine.

“Some other time, then,” he agrees, his voice somber. “Any time. You are more than welcome whenever you should choose to stake your claim. Vollis owes you our gratitude for your fair oversight on this matter, and I owe you my personal thanks for the benefit of your favor. I shall not forget. Be well, my friend.”

“And you,” Qui-Gon agrees. He steps away from the legate, and allows a few paces to distance them, allows Hosh to appreciate the imminence of his departure, and enjoy the prestige of a cost-free gratitude before he stops. He hesitates. And then he turns back. “Though, now I think of it,” he begins. “It’s a terribly long way back to the Core. I should hate to spend all of it in a cold bed. I’d like to claim the boy now. Permanently. As an expression of your gratitude.”

For a moment, Hosh allows surprise to overcome him. But then, a smirk curls up at the corner of his mouth, and he wags his finger at Qui-Gon for his presumption, and his cunning. But of course, it is one thing to be defrauded by an enemy. It is another thing entirely to be duped by a friend. The legate sees the humor in it all, and Qui-Gon is trailed back to his ship by a silent boy, draped in a thin cloak, and the heavy chains of bondage.

  
  
  


Aboard the ship, Qui-Gon Jinn is at more of a loss than he’d expected. The child is quiet. Not downcast, or sad, just...absent. He walks silently behind him on tiny, slippered feet. He keeps his eyes down, and his hands folded before him. The only noise he makes is the rattling of steel as the links of his chains tumble over each other in his movements.

Qui-Gon leads him to his berth, determined to remove him from the eye of public observation as soon as possible that he might relieve him of the bindings on his ankles, and break the collar from his neck, but when they arrive he’s startled to find Obi-Wan moving first, falling to his knees before Qui-Gon can reach for him.

The Jedi pulls back, studying the child. He’s still - unnaturally so - and Qui-Gon realises that while his posture is one of absolute obedience, his assumption of it is a deliberate attempt to avoid his touch: an attempt motivated not by defiance, but by a desperate desire to escape the inevitable violence of contact. And sitting there before him, vulnerable and exposed, it is plain the boy expects punishment for his evasion, resigned to the fact that his brief reprieve has earned him a harsh reprisal.

Qui-Gon steps back, and still the boy flinches at the sudden movement. He fears Qui-Gon’s wrath, and Qui-Gon _is_ angry - but not at him. The child before him is thin, half-starved and reconciled to his fate. The Jedi finds it unbearable. He had hoped, away from the Court, and the trappings of his subjugation, the boy might be less pliant, less enthusiastic in his obedience, but he knows now that hope had been a foolish one. This is the only life, the only way, the only form of address this child has ever known. 

The master sighs, and adjusts his expectations.

“Obi-Wan,” he says. He speaks gently. Softly. Though his eyes are closed, and he’s braced for violence, the boy turns his head at the sound of his name. “Sit.”

He gestures at the small, recessed bunk along the wall. The child - _Obi-Wan_ \- glances at it, but there is a brief moment of uncertainty before he finds his feet, and shuffles over. Charily, he lowers himself to the thin pallet. His fingers flex against the cushion, and Qui-Gon recognises he is preparing himself for something, perhaps to speak, but Qui-Gon is horrified to find that is not the case. Unable to imagine any alternative to the reason for his presence here, the boy begins to lie down on his stomach. He folds his arms beneath his head, his hands gripping his elbows, and his nails pressing deep into flesh. Waiting. There is nothing Qui-Gon can think of to say, so instead, he sits carefully beside him. Obi-Wan shuts his eyes, and breathes deep. 

A cloak is drawn over his legs, and tucked against his sides. He startles then, and for a moment, makes astonished eye contact with the Jedi, before burying his face in his arms.

A hand brushes against his ankle. Its touch is gentle, and inquisitive. He tries to measure his breaths by the beat of his heart, but it is too fast to track. He is terrified, but he does not resist, and any kinship Qui-Gon felt for Yiurel Hosh evaporates in the fever of his rage.

The child’s ankles are raw, bleeding, scabbed, and scarred, displaying a litany of abuse from across a great span of time. There are new wounds, and old. Some scars are pink, or white, or a dull, distant brown almost forgotten by the body itself, though Qui-Gon doubts the memory is so merciful.

_He_ tries to be merciful, despite his fury, and masters himself enough to be restrained in his use of the Force, applying it with careful subtlety. There’s a soft click, and the first manacle falls away, sinking into the bed with a low thump of defeat. The second one follows, and Qui-Gon can hear the child sniffling into the hollow of his arms as he drops the steel bindings to the floor, their prisoner no longer compelled by their weight.

Obi-Wan doesn’t move, and Qui-Gon doesn’t know how to comfort him, except to lie down beside him, close, but not touching. He’s quiet. He’s warm. He’s calm. And when the boy has finally cried himself to sleep, Qui-Gon turns out the light, and tenderly accompanies Obi-Wan into slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all your fault,  TeaRex 

The Council is less than impressed to find that Qui-Gon has, once again, expanded the mandate of his mission.

“To free slaves, your mission was not,” Yoda intones. The others, all stoic gazes, and set jaws nod, and agree. There is talk, although only speculative rumours at this point in time, that Mace Windu is soon to be appointed to the Council. Qui-Gon rolls his shoulders, and prays for the day he might finally have an ally in this room.

But for now, he faces their approbation alone.

“Not this mission, no,” he agrees. “But as a Jedi, is it not within my mandate to alleviate suffering whenever possible? To reach out to the needy? To aid the hopeless? To help where I can?”

“But within the bounds of your assigned directive,” Oppo Rancisis interjects. “As a member of this Order you are expected to act only as befits the privilege of your station. You were there at the invite of the Vollis Court, and the Saurian Alliance, to assist in their trade negotiations - not to interfere in their political governance.”

“And yet, I cannot see how I have interfered? I broke no laws of theirs, nor engendered any hostility.”

“Might not your participation be seen as tacit approval, then?” Questions the Wookiee master, Tyvokka.

Qui-Gon hesitates. He might suffer to argue that suggestion were this a mere debate, but the boy is real, and present, and any conclusion they might reach as to whether his decision to act was right or wrong is useless. What’s done is done. 

“Masters,” Qui-Gon says. “I accept that my actions were not the will of this Council, but they were the will of the Force. I will not apologise for freeing Obi-Wan.”

“But free him, you did not,” Yoda interjects. Qui-Gon feels his brows draw together, and his forehead knit in confusion, as the master continues. “Gifted, he was. Your property, he is. To Coruscant he is come, not as a person, no, but as property. To own a slave, the act of a Jedi, is this?”

“Of course not,” Qui-Gon snaps, horrified his grandmaster would even suggest such a thing. “As a Jedi, I claim no property, and as a man, I claim no slaves. He is free. If I am his master then may my only act be to let him go.”

“To where, may I ask?” The sonorous tones of Master Dooku resound throughout the chamber, lending gravity to the light itself which spills through the clari-crystalline windows.

“Excuse me, master?”

“To where shall you release him? As I understand things, your slave is a child, too young to be on his own. He needs rearing. Education. He is without a credit to his name - never mind the fact that he doesn’t even have _that_. Obi-Wan what? Who are the people that would speak for him?”

Qui-Gon is silent, his gaze dropping to the floor, his arms drawing up into the folds of his sleeves that his anxious fretting at the cloth might go unobserved. He can feel his old master’s gratification radiating dully in the force, grimly satisfied at having put his padawan back in his place. This has always been the way between them. Dooku demanding of respect, and Qui-Gon unwilling to freely bestow it where he felt it unearned.

“I will speak for him,” he says. The Council all seem to shift in their seats, as though a cool undercurrent of wind has ruffled them. The Force shifts. Or perhaps Qui-Gon just imagines it.

Dooku recovers first.

“And now you claim your slave?” he asks, disdain barbing his words. 

“I do not _claim_ him,” Qui-Gon says. “But I would protect him. I will guard him. I will see him educated, and brought up.”

“What you suggest seems tantamount to taking a Padawan,” says Master Poof. “And yet, I was under the impression this boy is not at all sensitive to the Force. Am I mistaken?”

“What Master Qui-Gon is suggesting, my dear Master Poof,” drawls Dooku, “Is tantamount to taking a son. A suggestion that I would consider utterly foolish, having seen the results of your latest effort in parenthood.”

There’s a rush of anger Qui-Gon makes only the barest effort to release, but both master and padawan are denied any further hits by Yoda.

“A padawan you have refused to take, Qui-Gon,” the ancient master says. “And for your last apprentice’s betrayal, attachment you would blame. Yes?”

“In part, master,” Qui-Gon acknowledges. “I was too fond of the boy. Too free in my affection. I - I see now that I failed in my duty as teacher because I was blinded by my personal...biases in his favour. But Obi-Wan will not be a padawan. And I have no desire for a son.”

“Hm...” Yoda considers this, nodding over his gimer stick, his eyes squinting as though he might bring the future into clearer focus. The rest of the Council awaits his decision with patience, though Qui-Gon feels the sting of unease.

With a decisive rap against the marble floor, Yoda makes his proclamation: “Many observances of public policy, must we make. Many strings must we pull, to assure his personhood, and his safety, before his place might the Council decide. Until then, confined to the Temple shall both of you be, and in your care, young Obi-Wan placed.”

  
  


As loathe as he is to admit it, Qui-Gon thinks the Council may have had a point. Once he’s back in his apartments, accompanied by an overly solicitous wraith, he too, begins to question the wisdom of his actions. 

Obi-Wan follows him closely with a learned anonymity, keeping just in the periphery of his sight, just on the outskirts of his reach, close enough to escort, but far enough away that he is entirely inconspicuous. Even in the Force he is small, and imperceptible, defying Qui-Gon’s belief that all living things have some luminosity whether they are Force sensitive or not. This boy is neither Light or Dark. He’s just absent. And while these characteristics have been deliberately fostered in order to create a perfectly invisible slave, Qui-Gon finds the combination of them make Obi-Wan rather peculiarly present. He is so unremarkable that he is exceptional, and the Jedi is both concerned and fascinated about the child now officially remanded to his care.

As soon as they step over the threshold of his quarters, Obi-Wan falls again to his knees, head to the floor. Qui-Gon initially attempts to correct this behaviour, but his every utterance feels uncomfortably close to an order.

“No need for that,” he says. “Don’t take my cloak. Don’t wait on me. Don’t fall on your knees. Don’t worry.” 

So, instead, he tries to persuade the boy into relaxing through other means. Hands forward, and palms empty he ushers Obi-Wan to explore the sitting room, encourages him to investigate the balcony, and drapes a blanket around the trembling shoulders. Eventually, the boy perches himself on the edge of the low couch to watch Qui-Gon as he putters around the tiny galley of his rooms, setting water to boil and measuring out a serving of tea. He is aware of the boy’s considering gaze, but determinedly ignores it, hoping to foster this curiosity.

He pours steaming water into a pot, and sets a tray with cups, and a variety of nectars, and honeys. Normally, he would not countenance the perversion of his brew with these additives, but something in him urges him to do more than enlighten this boy. He wants to _indulge_ him. 

Though his gaze has dropped back to the floor at Qui-Gon’s approach, his eyelids flicker, tracking the Jedi’s movement as he settles himself on the floor opposite Obi-Wan, tucking his legs beneath him. He has humbled himself to a slave, and he can read the boy’s shock in the way his eyes widen, and he pulls back, pressing deeper into the arms of the couch.

As the boy collects himself, Qui-Gon opens relations between them with a tea ceremony.

First, he produces a small square of undyed linen, and pours a small amount of tea from the spout onto the cloth. Then, he takes Obi-Wan’s cup, and wipes the bowl, sweeping away dust, and introducing the vessel to the brew. The cloth itself is a riot of gentle colors. It had once been white, woven from Nabooian _perriluna_ silk, but now, after years at Qui-Gon’s table, it bears the stains of countless ceremonies. Pale greens, and browns, and blues, some faded with washing, some retaining some vibrancy of being lately acquired, but each of them a memory of tea shared between friends. From Obi-Wan’s cup he moves to anoint his own, uniting the bowls through this ablution. 

That done, he lays the cloth atop the pot, covering the intricate patterning with the humble fabric. Then, he lies his hand upon it, covering the cloth as well. He is still, taking deep breaths as the steam rises from the mouth of the spout. When the heat beneath his hand becomes uncomfortable, he lifts the pot and begins to pour.

First, Obi-Wan is served. The boy watches closely, but does not reach out to claim his drink. Normally, the ceremony is a demonstration of trust and harmony, and Qui-Gon would not pour for himself until his guest had first taken a sip, and declared the taste satisfactory. But he supposes that some allowances can be made for grace’s sake.

He pours his own cup, and wipes the spout of any rogue droplets. The cloth is laid upon the tray, and the pot now deposited on top of it, the metal feet leaving divots in the weave. He wraps both hands around the cup, and raises it in salutation, nodding at Obi-Wan that he should do the same.

The child is skeptical, but his curiosity has finally persuaded him to look Qui-Gon in the face. Seeing the man smile, he cautiously reaches out to accept his own cup, two small hands wrapping around the vessel in a perfect imitation of the master’s. 

“Small sips,” Qui-Gon murmurs. “It is hot, and should be savoured.”

Thus saying, he demonstrates, barely touching the rim to his mouth, the brew wetting his lips. He licks away the barest mist of tea, tasting it, and testing the temperature. Eyes on the Jedi, Obi-Wan does the same.

Qui-Gon smiles.

“And now,” he says, conspiratorially. “Having tasted the results of my labor, it is up to _you_ to decide if it is worthy or not.”

The boy stares at Qui-Gon, then bows his head over his tea. He licks his lips once more, before replacing his cup upon the tray. It is evident he would rather forfeit his place at the table than be forced to pass judgement upon this stranger to whom he now belongs. But Qui-Gon is not so easily dissuaded from his mission.

He puts his cup back upon the tray as well, with rather more theatricality than Obi-Wan had. The boy looks up at the noise of ceramplast clattering against wood, fearful there has been some accident, or that his master has been goaded into anger.

Instead, the Jedi regards him calmly from the other side of the table. Obi-Wan frowns.

“I cannot drink until you declare it fit,” he explains, and Obi-Wan is stuck.

He gnaws at his lip, and looks over towards the balcony where the last rays of the day come streaming in, and the constellations of Coruscant’s skyline begin to twinkle in the starlight. His nails catch on the fabric of the couch, and his feet cross and uncross at the ankle as he works out what he must do.

“Try it again,” Qui-Gon urges, pushing the cup closer to the boy.

His forehead is creased with lines of distress, but his jaw is set when Obi-Wan looks back at Qui-Gon, braving a moment’s eye-contact at last. He reaches for his cup, and takes another sip. Qui-Gon follows him, taking another taste, as well.

That done, the boy holds the cup in his lap, studying it as closely as Qui-Gon studies him.

“Do you like it?” the Jedi asks.

A beat, and then, Obi-Wan nods.

“Hm,” Qui-Gon intones. “I am not satisfied.”

Obi-Wan looks up at that. The displeasure of his betters has often meant his own suffering, but Qui-Gon doesn’t move, and is still smiling as though he ruminates on some fond secret that Obi-Wan is not privy to. 

“Do you not think it rather bitter?” he asks, and he waits for Obi-Wan to reply, though it takes several minutes before the boy braves a rather stilted nod. “That may be easily remedied,” he says. “Though not without some experimentation. Would you like to take some honey in your tea?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head in the negative.

“Have you ever tasted honey?” the master presses.

Obi-Wan shakes his head again.

“Well, then how can you know if you should like it in your tea, or not?”

The boy bites his lip, and risks a shrug.

“Although, it _is_ very sweet, so you must be careful in how you measure it. It is very much a matter of personal taste, and I could not begin to guess at your preference for it.”

Obi-Wan watches as Qui-Gon lifts the lid to a tiny clay pot, and dips in a spoon. It emerges again coated in a thick, golden syrup that runs in sluggish rivulets down the course of the utensil, before Qui-Gon wipes the excess off with his finger.

“Mm,” he hums, licking his finger clean. “Delicious.”

Carefully, he adds a small amount of the honey to his own tea, stirring it until it is dissolved by the heat. He sets the spoon upon the cloth, and takes another, deeper draught of his drink, before sighing contentedly. But there he stops. His tea steams dreamily in his hand, but he doesn’t drink any more, waiting for Obi-Wan to join him.

The boy shuffles forward on the couch, still wary, but sufficiently baited to participate. He leans over the tray, cautiously lifting the lid of the pot, and dipping the spoon into the honey. It’s thicker than he anticipated, and sticky. It stretches and clings in messy strands he tries to detach from the depths of the pot, only for it to cleave to his fingers, dripping over the table, and his legs before he manages to maneuver it into his cup. 

There is no governing this substance, and he waves sticky hands frantically, looking for a cloth to rid himself of it, but there is nothing available he feels comfortable using, and Qui-Gon can’t help but laugh at his predicament. It seems in that moment, that he might be any other boy caught in the consequences of their own ill-thought mischief.

He reaches for one sticky hand, and playfully licks the honey from it, as he had done to his own. The boy freezes, his wrist caught in Qui-Gon’s grasp, his eyes caught in Qui-Gon’s gaze. The Jedi smiles. He laughs. His touch is gentle, and his manner full of kindness. His eyes still fixed on the Jedi, he finds some courage, and leans forward to lick another honey-covered finger just as Qui-Gon had done. The shock on his face when the sweetness of the honey hits his tongue is comical.

Qui-Gon chuckles again, absolutely charmed, though Obi-Wan retreats, embarrassed, and certain he is, somehow being made a mockery of. But, his eyes still crinkled in delight, Qui-Gon refills the spoon with honey, and holds it out to the boy.

“There’s plenty more,” he encourages. “This is for you to enjoy.”

So, ever so hesitantly, Obi-Wan reaches out to take the spoon, choosing to believe this man with the friendly eyes, and the warm laugh, and the pot with plenty of honey for him to try. He dips the full spoon in his tea, allowing some of it to dissolve, but removing it before it has vanished completely. Emboldened by the sugar, and the kindness, he shoves the spoon into his mouth, and licks that clean.

“I thought you might be rather fond of that,” Qui-Gon nods. He makes no objection when Obi-Wan adds a second, and a third spoonful to his drink, but instead raises his cup to his mouth, and takes a sip of his own perfect brew. The moment is sweetened further when he thinks he catches the tentative curl of happiness nestled just in the corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous depiction of baby Obi is by the delicate hand of  kyber-erso 

A month goes by before Qui-Gon is summoned before the Council again. He brings Obi-Wan with him, aware that the meeting must pertain to the child, and eager to hear the results of their efforts at patriation. They have been confined to the Temple, and Qui-Gon has been extremely patient in his obedience of this decree, so he knows it impossible that there should be any other incident for which he might be called to account.

He has felt every day of that month, quite acutely, haunted as they have been by the spectre of a boy. Obi-Wan cannot read. He cannot write. He speaks four languages, and is capable with numbers, but he cannot make sustained eye contact, or ask for help, or craft an opinion, or initiate a conversation. Qui-Gon knows that all of these things are skills he’ll need to master before he stands any chance at independence, but they seem completely insurmountable. It is only a day before Qui-Gon feels overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation. He cannot begin to imagine how Obi-Wan feels.

He wants to believe that they have made progress, but when they stand in the centre of the room, the critical regard of twelve respected masters cast upon them, the boy falls to his knees, trembling, as though no time has passed at all.

Dooku seems to regard this as evidence of Qui-Gon’s manifest failure. He tries not to seethe, tries not to let his ire be visible in his posture or his voice as he kneels beside Obi-Wan, whispering gently, and coaxing him to his feet.

Yoda grumbles, waiting for them to recover a degree of dignity before informing them that, while Obi-Wan’s case has been fast tracked through the judicial system, there is still no word on how long it will be before he will be free. Legally.

As a direct result of this bureaucratic inertia, the Council has deemed it necessary to remove Qui-Gon from active duty...much to Qui-Gon’s visible displeasure. 

“In your care, young Obi-Wan is,” Yoda reminds him. “Leave him behind, you cannot. But neither can you into military combat or political warzones, bring him. A conundrum for us, this poses. Our solution, we have decreed.”

  
“For how long?” The Jedi asks.

“For as long as we believe it necessary,” says Master Rancisis.

Qui-Gon scoffs. His arms drop out of their formal fold, his incredulity throwing his stance wide, his hands to his side as he looks from one stoic face to the next. Obi-Wan stumbles, then recovers his feet.

“But masters,” he objects, hardly giving a thought to the spectre of a boy who haunts his quarters still standing at his side, his pride too offended to dwell on him. “Surely that is not necessary. Am I so redundant that I may be spared indefinitely?”

“Some other responsibility more important you have, that aware of we are not?”

“Master Yoda, it is not that I begrudge -”

“Come, come, Qui-Gon,” speaks his old master. “Now which is it? Hardly more than a month ago you were in here insisting that the Force had guided you to save this boy; that it was your duty as a Jedi to - what was it? - help the helpless, yes?”

Dooku smiles in that predatory way of his, his black eyes glittering with triumph, his lips pressed together, curling upward in feline satisfaction. Qui-Gon grits his teeth. He will not rise to this bait.

“Surely there is another,” he suggests, his voice softly lilting in persuasive tones. “Perhaps a master of the creche? Or a Healer, who might be better suited to his care? Master Nu, might your own expertise be of greater benefit -”

“Do you presume to judge the value of my own time, Master Jinn?” The stern archivist objects. 

“No, Master. It’s only that I -”

“Enough of this,” says Dooku. “The decision has been made. I suggest you reconcile yourself to it most swiftly, as the sooner you set to your task to see the boy acclimated, the sooner you may surrender him to care of the Civil Fosterage Consortium, and resume your duties in the field.”

“Master Yoda -” Qui-Gon says, seeking out sympathy by name.

But Dooku is having none of it. 

“Are we understood?” he demands.

And Yoda does not speak out in opposition. Qui-Gon holds his ground for a moment, then another, waiting for a last minute stay of execution, but none is forthcoming. Instead, he is left to execute a genuflection of respect made ironic by the exaggerated depth to which he bows, and exit the room with all the grace and poise he does not feel.

His pace is brisk, long strides bringing him to his quarters before the sting of the meeting has yet to be drawn from his mind by the soothing hand of the Force. He is through the door, his cloak discarded, and his boots removed before he even thinks to check if the boy is still with him. He hardly remembers if he came in the first place.

But there he is, slipping quietly through the entrance, and straight to the galley. There’s water boiling, and tea steeping, and a kettle steaming wistfully on a tray. It’s all placed elegantly on the low table in the common room before him, and all his anger is swept from him in a warm rush of relief, and gratitude.

“Thank you, Obi-Wan,” he says, dropping to his knees is his customary position on the floor opposite the boy on the couch. From here, they are nearly of the same height, and he can regard him clearly, eye to eye on the rare occasions Obi-Wan attempts it. He exhales a long, and weary breath, and waits for Obi-Wan to pour. The boy repeats the ceremony exactly as Qui-Gon has performed it every day for a month. His movements are precise, and sure as he anoints the cloth, wipes the cups, covers the pot, and waits for Qui-Gon to judge his success.

The master lifts the vessel to his lips, tastes it once, then again, his second sip longer, savouring the tea with satisfaction.

“This tea is very good,” he says. “And the ceremony capably performed. Well done.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but raises his own cup, and sips. They sit silently amidst the vapours, and Qui-Gon permits the soothing coils of steam to calm his soul, and usher in the Force’s peace. As the tea disappears between them, he feels ready to address the subject unremarked upon between them.

“I am sorry for having made you suffer the Council’s approbation,” he offers. “But I promise, their anger is directed towards me. You have nothing to fear from them.”

Obi-Wan nods, but glances away, his eyes lingering on the darkest corner of the room, tucked against the exterior wall where the light of the balcony rushes past it in its enthusiasm to cross the floor. Qui-Gon studies him for a moment, aware that there is more to his hesitance than usual, and he is hit with a pang of bitter regret.

“I must apologise for myself as well,” he adds. “My conduct was not at all becoming of my rank as a Jedi. Or your guardian. Obi-Wan?”

The boy nods again, still submissive and accommodating. His silence unaccountably makes Qui-Gon feel the need to elaborate, and he sets his cup down to reach across the table and turn the boy’s chin with a gentle touch. Cerulean eyes meet his, clear and questioning, but not fearful as he’d expected. A little knot in his chest, bunched close to his heart in a bouquet of subtle grief unravels some, and Qui-Gon lets his hand drop back to his lap.

“I _am_ sorry,” the master says. “But it is up to _you_ whether or not you forgive me. _You_ choose. I consign myself to the quality of your judgement. There is no wrong answer, but the one you do not feel in your heart. So be true, Obi-Wan, be true to yourself. Do you understand?”

The boy holds his gaze, as he bites his lip, nodding. “I understand,” he murmurs. “And I forgive you.”

Qui-Gon smiles at Obi-Wan, then, eyes sparkling, and hopeful of the path ahead.

“Well, then,” he says. “It appears as though we have our work cut out for us.”

* * *

  
  


Obi-Wan, it seems, is a quick study - a trait for which Qui-Gon is nearly comically grateful. It’s not that he expects it to be easy, or that he’s so eager to be freed of his obligation that he would jeopardise the boy’s education, but surely, it is no great sin on his part to be relieved that his lessons are met by such a receptive student.

They set immediately to work, following tea, and a brief period of reflection that Qui-Gon uses to meditate, and Obi-Wan spends moving silently about the space, clearing away the tea things, and waiting.

So determined, Qui-Gon decides it only logical to start at the essence of knowledge, and work from there. He begins Obi-Wan’s education with reading. 

“It is the foundation for comprehension,” Qui-Gon tells the boy, head bent industriously over the Jedi’s personal datapad. He’d downloaded a few simple children’s holos from the Archives (unwilling to brave Jocasta in person), selecting the few titles he’d recognised from his own days in the creche, and opened the files for Obi-Wan’s perusal. He sits beside him on the low couch, the boy leaning across his chest to view the screen. “If you can read, you can gain the wisdom of hundreds of voices unable to speak for death, or distance. If you can read, you can understand thoughts and opinions not your own, or mine, or imparted upon you by unfair circumstances. If you can read, you can discover who you are, and who you want to be.”

Obi-Wan furrows his brow, and setting his tongue between his teeth, he strains with the effort of apprehension as Qui-Gon reads aloud, tracking the words on the screen with his finger. They go through it once, twice, and a third time before he passes the pad to Obi-Wan, and waits for him to make his own attempt. 

Small hands grasp at the pad, leaving anxious tracks. He licks his lips, and flips open the first image file. “A long time ago, and far, far away…” he begins. Qui-Gon smiles, marvelling at the child’s ability, untapped, and unappreciated for so long.

_This is his chance,_ he thinks. _This_ is his freedom. 

A few days later, the boy having blazed through his small selection of books with ease, and excited for his accomplishments, Qui-Gon invites by the first guest he’s had in the weeks since Obi-Wan’s arrival.

Master Tahl Uvain is beautiful. Soft, and yielding like a reed in the face of the mighty wind’s blustering roar. Her robes billow about her in undulating ripples of fabric that always remind Qui-Gon of the tides on Dorumaa, and when she speaks, it is light, and lyrical like the bird song on Alderaan. She is, he thinks, the only person to whom he may introduce Obi-Wan without fear of insult or injury on either side.

She is also one of Jocasta Nu’s colleagues in the Archives, and when he asks her to bring along a few resources that might assist in further supplementing his ward’s abilities, he congratulates himself for a very neat solution to the problem of Master Nu’s sustained disapprobation.

She steps over his threshold, and he’s quick to divest her of her outer robe, and solicit her for tea. This she accepts with an easy grace, obviously no stranger to Qui-Gon’s quarters. The Jedi smiles as Obi-Wan prepares the tea, and pours it with modest competency. Tahl hums out her appreciation for the brew, and they fall into comfortable conversation.

“When I heard you’d come back from your mission with more baggage than when you’d left, I had no idea Master Nu had meant it literally,” Tahl teases. Her eyes glitter over the rim of her cup, as she regards Obi-Wan with earnest delight. 

The boy drops his eyes to his own drink, and sips so that any expectation of answer may pass him by, unnoticed.

“I would not have imagined Jocasta Nu would be one for telling stories,” the master grouses. “And freeing slaves was hardly my intention. But we have got on well enough, haven’t we, Obi-Wan?”

“Yes, sir,” Obi-Wan agrees.

Tahl smiles at the sound of his voice, her head tipping to the side. She reaches one hand across the table to settle on Obi-Wan’s own as he replaces his cup upon the tray.

“I’m sure you’ve been a perfect treasure,” she says, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze. “And I’m told you’re a very diligent pupil.”

Obi-Wan carefully slides his hand from beneath hers, pulling it beneath the long drape of his own tunics, styled in the whites of Initiates. “I have much to learn, ma’am,” he replies.

Though her smile stays fixed in place, her eyes turn inquisitive, and Obi-Wan shifts beneath her scrutiny. Qui-Gon saves him from a more detailed study by returning his own empty vessel to the tray, and standing to clear the table. 

“Perhaps, while I am tidying up, you might show Master Uvain just how much you have managed in these past few days. My datapad is on the little table just inside my room, if you’d like to run and fetch it?”

The boy doesn’t hesitate, rising to his feet, and trotting off to do as he is bid in that peculiar, silent manner of his. More than once, Qui-Gon has called out for him, only to find him already present, and eager for instruction. Sometimes, drifting in and out of meditation, he has nearly forgotten Obi-Wan existed, momentarily startled to find those anxious eyes upon him as he awakens from his trance. A symptom of a life spent hiding in plain sight, he thinks, but one that has made his acclimation to the boy’s residence nearly seamless. 

He sleeps in Xanatos’ old rooms, empty and bare of any personal touches, but full of memories that Qui-Gon doesn’t care to sift through for the sheer volume of dust they would throw into the air. He sees them, sometimes, dancing in the light, launched into swirling clouds by the weight of his feet upon the carpet, little motes of idle recollection. But if he’s very still they soon alight on the walls and the floors, leaving him able to breathe deeply once more. Obi-Wan’s steps are so soft that nothing stirs at his approach. Not even memory.

The child haunts the apartment like a shadow, moving about the rooms from corner to corner, evading the illuminating sun. He’s up before Qui-Gon, no matter how early the Jedi rises. He’s always clean, immaculately groomed, the lines of his new clothing crisp as though they are the decorative costumes of office, instead of the rough apparel of a young boy. He never complains of hunger, or boredom, or fatigue, but he hovers in doorways, and flinches if Qui-Gon moves too suddenly, or speaks too loudly.

He hopes, by introducing the boy to people he trusts, and knows to be more sympathetic to Qui-Gon’s own foibles and failings, that he might begin to instill some confidence in Obi-Wan. If he sees that there are others reaching out to him, if he learns to engage without fear of judgement or unjust retribution, then perhaps he may begin to lose some of the crippling vulnerability that holds him prisoner even now. Perhaps, he may become self-reliant more quickly, more independent - independent enough that Qui-Gon may be assured of his own redundancy, and feel content in turning him over to the Consortium with every confidence of the boy’s ability to flourish. _That_ , he reminds himself, _Is the goal._ It would be to no one’s benefit to shelter the boy. To coddle him. To get attached. He knew the dangers which lay that way all too well.

He hears the bright, young voice murmuring softly from the room behind him, familiar phrases flowing with ease. 

“ _The small Ortolan gave his mother a kiss, said, “I think that I’ll just avoid all of this, by keeping my feet planted firm on the ground, and seeing to it that you’re always around._ ”

The Jedi can’t help the tiny, satisfied smirk that creeps over his face. He shouldn’t be proud, he knows, but to think that little more than a month ago he held this child’s weeping, bloodied ankles in his hands, lay beside him as he cried himself to sleep in terror for his life, to think - or carefully, determinedly _not_ think - of the cruelties which came before, and to see him now, safe in his rooms, speaking to a near perfect stranger with poise, and eloquence...Qui-Gon thinks he may be forgiven this brief blush of pleasure for how far they’ve come.

The story continues behind him, drifting to its natural conclusion, a satisfyingly happy ending for all the children lulled by the voices of loving parents who read to them, while they drift into an easy sleep.

“ _“Don’t worry, my child, keep your gaze on the sky, and jump all you want, so big and so high, for I promise,” she said, in a warm loving tone. “I’m always with you. You are never alone.”_ ”

“That’s very good, Obi-Wan,” says Tahl. She sits beside him, but far enough away that he is not forced to make contact, aware now that it may not be welcomed. He ducks his head, his mouth fighting to hide a confession of delight, as she pulls her own datapad from a bag at her feet. “I’ve brought you a few more stories,” she says. “Do you think you might try reading a new one to me?”

Obi-Wan hesitates. He looks at Qui-Gon, who frowns not in displeasure, but in ponderous curiosity, nodding at the boy to yield to the request. A small hand darts out to accept the pad, and he flips to the first screen easily. Qui-Gon leans across the countertop, keen to hear this story, and eager to marvel in astonishment at the demonstration of his prowess.  
  


* * *

It is an astonished master who sees Master Uvain to the door a brief half hour later, his pupil having been sent to change and wash up for bed.

“You are angry,” she observes, as he helps her back into her robe.

“I am not,” he insists.

“You didn’t even look at him when he left,” she says. “You didn’t see his face. To be dismissed like that by you - it was almost cruel. All he’s done is try to please you.”

“But that is exactly it,” Qui-Gon snaps, his frustration leaping forth as she taunts it from its deadly coil. “In trying to please me he has done himself a disservice. He has exercised deceit and manipulation in an effort to elicit from me the reaction which suits him best.”

Tahl pulls away, yanking her mantle into place without the aid of Qui-Gon’s distracted hands. She turns to him, and rolls her eyes at the expression on his face.

“Oh, for star’s sake,” she says. “He just wants you to be happy. You’re all he’s got in the universe.”

“It’s a temporary arrangement,” he counters.

“He has nothing else.”

Qui-Gon sighs, his hand going to his forehead to smooth the wrinkles of upset and confusion from his brow before they settle into a deeper ache.

“How am I to manage a boy who lies to my face about his ability? Who hides his weaknesses, and won’t ask for help, or confess to failure? That is not someone who _wants_ to learn, and I cannot teach an unwilling student.”

Tahl says nothing for a moment, but her lips are pressed into such a firm line that Qui-Gon suspects her silence is more for his benefit than a lack of rejoinder on her account. They stare at each other, both upright and unbending before she sees something in his face to soften her own aspect. She lays a hand alongside his cheek, and tuts in sympathy.

“Oh, Qui,” she says. “You need to get that boy to a Healer.”

He nods, but is still too caught up in the maelstrom of his own disappointment to truly heed the wisdom in her counsel. She leaves, and the empty rooms of Qui-Gon Jinn are filled with silence once again. He turns to regard them, hoping to find some clarity hiding in the periphery of his vision, only to be confronted by Obi-Wan in an abject display of contrition. He’s on his knees, arms outstretched, face flat to the floor and breathing heavily.

“Obi-Wan -” the Jedi starts.

“I am sorry, master,” he exclaims, the apology surging forth from tremulous lips. “I didn’t mean to disobey you. I meant to do as you said. I learned the book. I learned it, just like you asked -”

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon interjects. “You _did not_ do as I requested. I set out to help you learn how to _read_ , but you have merely memorised. Do you pretend not to know the difference?”

The form on the floor is silent, a clear admission of guilt, and Qui-Gon finds his frustration abruptly smothered in the exhaustion of disappointment.

“Go to bed,” he says. “We’ll start again in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, master,” the boy repeats.

“To bed.”

Slowly, as though afraid he may startle violence from his guardian if he should move with too much intent, Obi-Wan unfolds himself from his position, and wipes at his face where a few traitorous tears have left pale tracks of grief upon his cheeks. Wary lest his sympathy be unjustly evoked, Qui-Gon turns his back on the boy as he shuffles off towards the darkness of Xanatos’ bedroom. The Jedi puts some water to boil that he might regain a little of that peace he’d felt hardly more than an hour ago, and watches particles of dust dance like constellations in the dim light of the galley.

“I’m really sorry, master,” comes one more plea, drifting tentatively cross the room.

“Goodnight, Obi-Wan,” the weary master replies, and after that, they speak no more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. I did this. It nearly killed me, but for the lovely people on the discord. (esp.  pomiar and  TeaRex , and  treescape , and  outpastthemoat  and  acatbyanyothername ..........is this bad form to tag them all? I don't know, but they're all astonishing authors so, like....these tags are also easy portals to beautiful fic. Which is why we're all here. Don't lie. <3)
> 
> The stunning rendition of our small candy-loving space boy is by my spicy dreamboat  kyber-erso 
> 
> I am astonishingly in love with all of you.
> 
> (ALSO, Ben To Li is the creation of ruth baulding. And so is Tahl's last name. Honestly, maybe I AM ruth baulding at this point [I'm not])

He’s called into the office with a solemnity that bodes some terrible revelation, and Qui-Gon is reminded again why he is less than fond of Healers. There are some who amuse him, and some who sympathise, and console him with expressions of shared suffering, or self-deprecating smirks, but no matter their bedside, no matter their black wit, or optimistic outlooks, no matter their treatment plans, or cutter’s promises, Qui-Gon never forgets that they are the consorts of injury and death. So when Ben To Li, Chief Healer specialising paediatrics, ushers him in with eyes that crinkle into a smile, but lips which twist upwards like mangled steel, he feels his gut clench, and knows to be wary.

“Is there something wrong with Obi-Wan?” 

“Come in, Qui-Gon, and sit,” the healer says, gesturing towards the low-backed chair before his desk.

Qui-Gon complies, quietly, and willingly folding himself into the offered seat. Ben To moves with a calm, measured gait, pausing by the sideboard to pour a flute of water for himself, and another for his guest. Qui-Gon does his best to be patient, and holds his glass in his hand, the water still and clear. He reminds himself that though he is a master in his own right, he has never and will never master the acceptance these healers wear like talisman hanging from their necks. What he doesn’t say, but what he will admit to himself, what he will whisper to his heart to soothe its bright and anxious patter, is that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want that weight bearing low against his throat, choking him, and strangling wild hope. That awareness of the Force’s will, and the acquiescence to its whims in regards to the preservation of life is one thing. The submission to its surrender is another. That is a weight he could never carry so easily. The serenity of a healer is nothing to be envied, for it is only the poor disguise of the old witch, _Resignation._

Ben To smiles, and Qui-Gon is not put at ease.

“You should have come to me sooner,” Ben To sighs, setting his glass aside, and folding his hands atop his desk. 

Qui-Gon shifts his leg, letting it fall wider, taking up more of the space as he feels his jaw clench, and his back get up.

“It was supposed to be a temporary solution.”

“ _It?_ ”

“His -” He pauses to correct himself, and give the boy his name. “ _Obi-Wan’s_ presence here. I had thought it would be a rather simple task to have him placed in the system, but there have been...complications.”

Ben To laughs, though there is something closer to pity than sympathy in the sound.

“Of the political variety?”

“Of course,” the master laments. His own mouth crooks upward in the aggravated smirk of someone who had known better, but expected more anyway.

“I heard you won him on a bet,” he says.

“Something like that.”

“And they tell you how many committees, boards, commissions, and task forces have been assembled to address every aspect and article of bureaucratic _pulga-plop_ relating to his existence?”

“Based on Jocasta’s particular disdain for me these past weeks, I’d wager somewhere in the hundreds - and, I’d imagine most of those require the Council’s direct oversight.”

“So you’ve been banned from the Archives?”

“For possibly the next century.”

When Ben To laughs this time, Qui-Gon does too, and just as he begins to feel the dread slip from his shoulders, they fall into silence. Ease does not occur naturally within the Halls, and must instead be manufactured with medicine, or amusing company. Ben To looks at him with steady eyes beneath a ponderous brow, and the master realises he has fallen into the healer’s trap.

“What’s wrong with Obi-Wan?” he asks again.

Ben To sighs. It’s long, and messy in the way the exhalation catches in his chest, and hisses through his teeth as the healer clears his throat. He pulls a datapad from beneath a pile of holos, ration bar wrappers, and an assortment of other bits of professional flotsam on his desk. The screen flickers on, and the faint glow of blue light draws the warmth from Ben To’s flesh, rendering him pale and sickly to Qui-Gon’s observation. The healer thumbs through several pages of reports.

“As I’m sure you’d expect, there is evidence of prolonged abuse - old breaks, some poorly healed scar tissue, enamel decay, stunted growth, malnutrition, and such - but that is not what concerns me most. I can fix all that. With time, we can treat, and likely reverse most, if not all of those physical ill-effects, but Qui-Gon...I’m afraid you’ve found a terribly wounded little boy.” 

Qui-Gon wants to deny this. He wants to dismiss it. He wants to say that can’t be true. Obi-Wan hasn’t behaved as though he’s hurt. He’s been doing so well. He eats. He sleeps. Qui-Gon has seen him smile. But in the end, he can only speak the truth. 

“I know,” he replies. “That’s why I took him away.”

“And how long will you be keeping him?”

Qui-Gon tips his head. “As long as I must,” he says.

And he realises that this is also the truth.

* * *

  
  


Obi-Wan waits for him on a bench recessed into the wall of the Halls. The curve of the stone seems to cradle him, as it rises upwards to enfold the space beneath a high, graceful dome. Light streams in from claricrystalline windows above, fretting the air with wide, golden shafts that do their best to avoid the small boy pressed into the seat. When he sees him, he reaches out, and beckons him forth from the shadows.

“Obi-Wan,” he says. “Come.”

The boy is quick to his feet, and at Qui-Gon’s side, just out of reach, in an instant. He has that careful look he wears most often, his mouth pressed thin, eyes wide and watchful. He studies Qui-Gon’s mouth, his hands, or his feet; looking just beyond his shoulder, just to the left of his ear, or just above his head, only occasionally bold enough to try to meet his gaze. He is all brief glances, and tentative movements, flickering in the periphery of Qui-Gon’s vision like some small insectoid - a moth, fluttering in the thrall of an unattainable light.

He studies Obi-Wan then, trying to see something in him that he knows he has missed, but he is elusive, flickering in and out of Qui-Gon’s perception. _There!_ He thinks he sees him for a moment, thinks he catches some flash of comprehension, or recognition, but then he is gone. His eyes narrow in an effort to bring that inchoate revelation into focus but the thought dissipates into the gloaming before it can take shape, leaving only the ghost of understanding drifting through his mind. It’s frustrating, chasing these fleeting notions. It is as though the boy is a word he has heard but can’t recall, or a dream slipping like shimmersilk between his fingers. He wishes he knew what Obi-Wan thought of himself.

And so he asks. “How are you?”

The child starts at that. His mouth opens once, then closes. He turns his face to the floor and inhales deeply, narrow shoulders rising and falling with his breath.

“Fine, sir,” he says.

Qui-Gon hums in vague acceptance of this statement. He glances around, feeling the press of people too closely as they stand in the centre of the atrium, untrained players upon a stage. This is not the place for honesty. He holds out his arm, palm up, and guides Obi-Wan nearer to the wall, and into an alcove that promises privacy. With voices, and vibrant signatures muted by the shelter of stone, he reaches into the fold of his robe, and withdraws a small stick of verdant green, and icy blue. He holds it out to Obi-Wan, urging the boy to take it.

“A sticky-staff for you,” the Jedi says. “Healer Li said you’d been very helpful during his assessment. Take it.”

Obi-Wan does, his fingers bearing briefly against Qui-Gon’s in the hand off.

“It’s better to be helpful with doctors and med-droids,” says Obi-Wan, examining the sweet. “Otherwise, they might cut you even if you don’t need it. Do you bite this?”

“You may, if you like. But it’s hard. Better to lick it,” Qui-Gon advises. “Why would they cut you if you didn’t need it?”

Obi-Wan shrugs, licking the candy staff and looking away.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says, drawing his attention back. The boy turns his head toward the master, but his focus never rises higher than where the sticky-staff is clutched in his hand. “I spoke to Healer Li about the results of his examination.”

Obi-Wan says nothing.

“He’s very worried about you,” Qui-Gon says. The words rumble softly, turning over softly through the cavern of his chest, like the roll of an ocean’s surf from far away.

Still Obi-Wan says nothing.

“Do you want to know why?” He pauses, but is not surprised there is no reply. “Do you understand what happened to you? On Vollinar VI?”

Like a match to kindling, this sparks a reaction. Obi-Wan’s jaw snaps shut, his eyes lit from hearthfires within, recently banked, but now stoked to outrage, and upset.

“I know what slavery is,” he declares. “I know that’s what I am.”

“No, you -” Qui-Gon feels his own ire rising to match the boy’s, and he exhales, hoping a cleansing gust of Light can extinguish it before he is overwhelmed. He tries again. “Alright,” he says. “Do you know what’s happening to you now? Here, on Coruscant?”

Obi-Wan freezes between one lick and the next, the flavor frozen in a muddle of blue upon his tongue. Qui-Gon watches as he swallows, and shuts down. It is nearly a palpable thing between them, this sudden distance, rising like a swift storm on a clear summer’s day. The boy tucks his chin.

“They call you Master Jinn, here,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I forgot -”

“No,” he cries, grasping the boy by the shoulders, and crouching to address him evenly. His fingers press into soft flesh, and prominent bone, and he relaxes his grip, his hands reflecting the tenderness of present youth. “No, Obi-Wan,” he murmurs. “It means only that I am the master of myself. That I have achieved a mastery of skill and understanding within the Order. You know what the Jedi are, do you not?”

Obi-Wan nods. “You’re a Jedi.”

“We are all Jedi here,” he explains. “We believe in the power of the Force - the energy which flows between everything, binding it together, and shaping the course of our lives. It _is_ life. And through study, and dedication to its Will, we may master it, and use it for good. We may use the term to denote respect, to identify authority, but never, _never_ ownership. A Jedi possesses no things, and certainly no people. You are your own man, Obi-Wan. You are free here, and I swear to you, I shall see to it you are free _everywhere._ ”

Qui-Gon waits, his brow raised in lines of expectation, hoping that the boy understands this. Needing for him to believe this. There is, of course, so much _more_ to be said, and yet how can he explain what he has known since a babe in the creche? The Force is no less a part of himself than is his littlest finger, or a thread of his hair. It is no less than his heartbeat, and his lungs. It is every thought, and every impulse. It is everything, and nothing. It is neither wild, nor tamed, it is neither cruel, nor kind. It just _is_. And yet how can he explain this to a child who has survived on absolutes? 

There’s a small divot hewn into the flesh between Obi-Wan’s brows, but his eyes are locked on Qui-Gon’s own, shifting back and forth, searching for illumination. Finally, his gaze turns inwards, his eyes falling to the floor not in deference, but in preoccupied consideration. He frowns, and asks, “But I’m not free everywhere right now?”

The master sighs, his eyes drifting closed. He’d wished to escape this discussion, these penetrating questions with answers far too complicated for the thousands of educated senators to answer with any certainty, let alone a weary master too old, and too cynical in his perception of those politicians to justify their position to a child, victimised by circumstance, and the turn of the stars. 

“It’s complicated, Obi-Wan,” he says. “First, you must be made well. Then, you must be deemed capable enough to be accepted into fosterage. After which, you will be placed with a family - a mother, and father. Perhaps siblings. And they shall oversee your care until you are grown to adulthood, and may look after yourself, and be trusted to direct your own course.”

“I’ve always taken care of myself,” the boy counters fiercely. “No one had to do it before, when I was a slave everywhere.”

“We are all subject to the expectations of society,” Qui-Gon says. “But those bonds may not overrule the pursuit of individual safety, or happiness. You may not be beaten, or starved, or made to serve others without expectation of remuneration, or respect.”

“That doesn’t sound much different.”

“You will see, Obi-Wan. Trust me. It is a much better life that awaits you, where you can choose to do what you like, and be what you want. Just a little patience is required.”

“And if I should want to be a Jedi, like you?”

This is a possibility that has not occurred to Qui-Gon, and he is staggered for a moment to realise how he must appear to this child. A master. A slaver. A saviour. A god. He is not comfortable with any of these possibilities, and he wonders when Obi-Wan slipped from fear into awe, and he wonders if distinction between those two states is so great as to be noted, or if they are as intertwined as slavery and freedom in the eyes of a child. 

Obi-Wan stares at him openly, waiting for an answer, asking for possibly the first thing in his life, and Qui-Gon cannot bring himself to explain anymore. 

“That is not everyone’s destiny,” he says gently. 

“It could be mine,” Obi-Wan says.

“It is a difficult path, and only a few beings in the galaxy are sensitive to the Force in the ways that the Jedi are.”

Obi-Wan looks up at him with pleading eyes, waiting for the confirmation of his belonging that Qui-Gon cannot give. He won’t lie to him. But he’s had enough of heartbreak for one day.

“We shall discuss it later,” the Jedi mutters, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders, and drawing him close to his side. “For now, we might exercise your first freedoms. Tell me, Obi-Wan, out of everything now open to you, what is it you would most like to do?”

The boy pulls back slightly to read the sincerity in Qui-Gon’s offer. He is steady, and sure when he replies. “Truthfully, sir,” he declares. “I would very much like to learn how to read.”

* * *

  
They do not return to Qui-Gon’s rooms, or the datapad full of children’s books and disappointed expectations. Instead, he takes Obi-Wan to the Archives, and when they step through the modest entrance and stand beneath the arched roof so high as to become the sky itself, Qui-Gon watches awe suffuse his charge’s face for the second time. Perhaps there is a little fear there, as well, as he steps closer to the Jedi, the heavy cloak folding over and back to enrobe Obi-Wan in a protective shroud, shielding him from the overwhelming expanse of banked knowledge. A small hand, lead by tiny, tentative fingers creeps into Qui-Gon’s palm. He curls his own hand around it, squeezing gently to assure the boy of his presence, and permission. The hands tugs him down, seeking conference.

“Are these all holobooks?” Obi-Wan whispers the secret hope into his ear.

“Every last one,” Qui-Gon promises. “Holobooks, and holocrons. Datacards, and star maps, and everything you could ever want to read.”

“They could fit the whole galaxy in here,” the boy breathes, his awe transforming into curiosity, barely restrained by Qui-Gon’s grip. 

“They have done precisely that,” the Jedi says. “Would you like to pick some stories to take back with us?”

“Anything?” Obi-Wan asks, incredulously.

“Anything you like.”

The boy shifts beside him, rolling an ankle, and twisting his free hand in contortions of dismay.

“I wouldn’t know what to pick,” he says.

“Then I shall be there to help you,” Qui-Gon assures him. Obi-Wan looks up at him, and Qui-Gon smiles. He takes the first step, tugging at the boy’s hand. “Come, Obi-Wan. Let us pick an adventure story to read together.”

Qui-Gon leads him into the stacks, and Obi-Wan cheerfully follows.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I the worst at replying to comments? No. But am I the best? ..........also no. 
> 
> I am getting there. I swear. And I adore hearing from you - you keep me motivated, and I love you. And I swear, I just got distracted writing smut and depressing coffee shop aus this ONE time, but....I'm focused again.

There’s a movement in the back of his head, a shadow on the wall of his mind; odd and uncomfortable, like a milk tooth, quivering in place, it’s exodus imminent and terrible. He prods at it with the tendrils of thought, unable to keep from touching the raw edges of it, unsure if it is an injury or if it has always been there, and afraid to ask.

He sits in his quarters, ruminating idly, watching as Obi-Wan thumbs through yet another tome, reading out loud, and labouring over three syllable words he knows but has never seen. His ambition outstrips his ability, but Qui-Gon says nothing to deter him, keeping his private worries private. Ambition in a boy is a dangerous thing, not to be encouraged, but rather checked. Ambition is, after all, the kin of selfishness. Pride. Vanity. The failings of a indulgent master visited upon his apprentice. He listens as Obi-Wan stumbles and frets over silent letters, and invisible diphthongs, and frowns as he reaches the conclusion of a paragraph, and looks to Qui-Gon for his verdict.

“Very good, Obi-Wan,” he says, but his praise is preoccupied as his thoughts linger on another. 

“Sir?” Obi-Wan says. His distraction must be visible on his face, for the boy sets the pad aside, and rises from where he’s sprawled across the cushions to perch courteously on the edge of the seat. 

The Jedi smiles, pulling himself into the present as he hauls his body forward from the soporific depths of his chair. “It’s nothing,” he insists. “That’s enough for tonight. Have a wash, and change for bed. I’ll come by to turn out your light.”

Obi-Wan hesitates in a new way that he’s still learning. It is not uncertainty of purpose, or fear for himself that gives him pause, but concern for Qui-Gon, and worry that it’s not his place to care. Qui-Gon knows it isn’t, and does his best to discourage it without being cruel. He lifts his chin, and tilts his head back, Obi-Wan craning to follow the master’s expression before it is turned too high for his sight. 

“Go, now,” Qui-Gon says, stern but not without a lilting burr of kindness in his tone. 

Obi-Wan scrambles to his feet, and straightens the cushions, collecting the pad from between the seat and the backrest. His step falters as he passes by Qui-Gon, throwing him one more sceptical glance, but the master is only amused by this child’s frank and open appraisal, and laughs.

“Off with you,” he chuckles, placing his hands over Obi-Wan’s shoulders and directing his course towards the fresher.

He waits for him to disappear behind the door before collecting the tea things from the table, and moving to clean them in a compact steri-unit, before replacing them in the cupboards. He runs his hands over the smooth ceramplast, still warm from steam, and reflects on the placid joy of tidying up, and more on his unspoken satisfaction that Obi-Wan had not moved to perform the task for him.

He hears the fresher switch off, the pneumatic hiss of the door as it opens, and again as it closes, and the soft-pad of feet, still damp, as they cross the hall to enter the tiny bedroom across from Qui-Gon’s own. He collects his own pad from where he’d set it aside to listen to Obi-Wan’s oration, and touches off the warm light of a floor lamp as he passes through to bid Obi-Wan good night.

For months, Qui-Gon has passed by the room, pausing only long enough to palm off the central light, and say a few words of comfort before retreating to the privacy of his own oasis, but tonight, old ghosts seem to eddy and swirl in the currents of the room. There is a chill in the air, cooler and more biting than the rest of his quarters. It makes his skin erupt in gooseflesh, and he thinks Obi-Wan must feel it too, for he throws himself into bed, and pulls the covers high to his neck, burrowing deep beneath the thin nerf wool of his standard issue blanket. Blue eyes stare at him, wide and young, and Qui-Gon is compelled across the threshold.

It is a lonely little cell he enters, the walls barren, and the shelves empty of any personal touches. And yet, it’s very barrenness allows the clean projection of a thousand different memories from another time. He looks around, his eyes seeking out the crooked slope of a desk, the slight misalignment of a drawer, the marks against the wall scratching out the height of a child as he grew towards manhood, ending abruptly just below the line that recorded Qui-Gon’s own height. The boy shifts behind him, the blankets rustling, and hushing him into stillness. Qui-Gon turns, surprised to see auburn blazed against the white sheets, instead of a shock of ebony.

He exhales. He drops his shoulders, and he allows the tortured lines of his brow to fall, wilting into a gentle smile.

“Goodnight, Obi-Wan,” he says. He reaches out, pulling the blanket from the tight clasp of anxious hands, and tucking it close around exposed shoulders. Obi-Wan looks up at him, still solemn and searching. With the weight of that gaze upon him, and before he can think better of it, Qui-Gon brushes his palm flat over the child’s brow, brushing his hair up, and out of his face. Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter shut, and he sighs, a little of that ever present tension he carries surrendering itself to the night. “Sleep well.”

He turns, spares a brief flick of his wrist to turn out the light, spares not one more thought for the emptiness of the room, and is two paces from the door when a thin voice calls him back.

“Master Jinn?” he says. “What happened to the boy that was here before me?”

Qui-Gon pauses in his stride.

“What boy?” he asks, for there is no reason that Obi-Wan should know, and he waits for him to name some other initiate, some padawan, or archivist he may have encountered though there are none he’s met without Qui-Gon at his side.

Then he speaks again, and every fear, every spectre of loss, every ghoul from every dark corner of the room, every wraith in every swirling current comes back to him, and freezes out any thoughts but those of sorrow and foreboding.

“What happened to Xanatos?” he asks.

“How do you know that name?” Qui-Gon says. He waits, a looming shadow in the night, blocking the bare threads of light that steal around the doorframe from beyond, and Obi-Wan fails to answer.

The master whirls on the spot and stalks back to the little bed, dropping to his knees, his voice harsh with his efforts to lash it to that foundation of control, a central pillar of the Code, and his own willing adherence to it. “Where did you hear it?” he demands.

Obi-Wan recoils, clutching the bedclothes higher, and shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he says, but Qui-Gon is not satisfied. He grabs the boy by the shoulders, impressing the urgency of his cause upon him with a frantic jolt.

“Who told you of Xanatos?” he asks.

“No one, sir,” says Obi-Wan. “No one, I swear.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Nothing!”

“Then why do you speak his name? How do you know of him? Why do you ask me these things?”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but stares at him, his eyes glassy and troubled. Like waves breaking upon the ragged cliffs of a frozen shore, Qui-Gon abruptly gives way, shattered and tumbled in the surf of sensibility. He peels his fingers from where they dig into Obi-Wan’s arms, his head hanging with regret.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, Obi-Wan. That was...I should not have...I am sorry, child.” He heaves a breath, and crumples forward his chest hanging low over his knees as he scrambles to find his centre.

A small hand presses against his shoulder, then falls to working over his back in wide circles.

“It’s okay,” Obi-Wan says. “I forgive you.”

* * *

Qui-Gon does not go to bed. Instead, he leaves Obi-Wan to his rest, and returns to the foreroom, settling down on a low cushion, and leaning into meditation. But peace does not come. He chases absolution and enlightenment all evening. They flicker in his mind’s eye, glinting as little fish beneath a rippling current, flashing in the sunlight and gone before they can be caught. He breathes in the Light, and releases the darkness of his thoughts over and over again until evening falls into night, and rises again to the dawn. He’s still sitting, still reaching, still seeking when the bedroom door slides open, and Obi-Wan emerges, rubbing his eyes of sleep sand, and stretching his arms to the sky.

“Obi-Wan,” he says, opening his eyes as the boy slides from the untamed abandon of sleep into the rigid posture of consciousness. He blinks at him. The morning sun catches in his hair, turning the red to embers, and haloing him in a crown of golden-fire, and he seems to glimmer in Qui-Gon’s vision in some familiar way. And yet, as he looks upon him now, he appears entirely new, all tender pinks, and blithe yellows, and coruscating whites. He holds out his hand, and beckons the boy come close. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the floor before him.

Obi-Wan does so, unquestioning. He settles upon his knees, hands upon his thighs, waiting, and open to the master’s inspection. After a long moment of study, the Jedi’s face smooths, a decision reached. He holds his palms out flat, and crooks his fingers calling Obi-Wan to place his hands down upon them.

“Have you ever meditated before?” Qui-Gon asks.

Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“It is a centering technique,” he explains. “A tool used not just by the Jedi, but by beings of all races and creeds. It is meant to calm you. To focus you. It is meant to help you find peace, and understanding, and to connect you to your deepest self. I would like very much to try it with you, now.”

Obi-Wan’s fingers curl and flex in indecision, wondering what sorts of things he might find inside himself. What sort of things a Jedi might see. But in the end, he decides to trust Qui-Gon, and he lets his hands relax over the warm, dry palms of the master.

“Close your eyes,” Qui-Gon instructs. “And listen to my breath.”

He waits until the boy has complied, before letting his own lids slide shut, and drawing in deep, measured breaths. When he feels Obi-Wan still and his focus sharpen, he asks of him one more thing. “Now,” he says. “Breathe with me.”

A minute passes, or three. Perhaps more, but all at once, between one second and the next, time simply falls away, and they are in another place. The Force awakens. It quickens in him like new life, passing over the red heat of the inside of his eyes like sunlight trickling between trees. He inhales and it is cool, and sharp. He exhales and it is heavy, and liquid. He is drowsy, as though he has lingered in a hot spring, and at the same time, he feels the keen sting of awareness as though he has been plunged into a snowbank.

And yet, for all this, he feels nothing at all. His spirit is loosed from the straits of the flesh, unfurling at the joints of consciousness like great, feathered wings, and he is soaring above, wheeling in the burning gas of newborn suns, kicking up cosmic dust and reveling in this impossible freedom. And around him, stars. They wink at him, and glisten brightly, each a soul, each a being, each a light and a life that flash in the darkness with the divine illumination of the Force. But some - those blessed few - do more than reflect the Light. They _glow_.

He breathes in again, and reaches for the crude matter of Qui-Gon Jinn to anchor his being to, drawing himself back, reigning his spirit in, bridling the Force to a sentient purpose. He feels the muscles ripple beneath skin, feels the ache in his arms as they strain to hold a position, feels the weight of Obi-Wan’s hands in his own. He holds onto that feeling until he can feel the support of larger hands beneath his own, until he can feel the elasticity of youthful joints, the patter of eager heart, the tautness of childish skin still plump at the cheeks. He delves further into Obi-Wan, passing through the viscera, passing through conscious thought, until he finds himself back in the thrall of the grander cosmos. But where Qui-Gon had found light and life in himself, all he finds is Obi-Wan is the dark.

At first, he flinches from it, wanting to withdraw, wanting to cast off this evil, but he has learned some patience with the passing of years, and so he calms himself. He sits still in the black, and listens. What he hears is not the echoing reverberations of malice, nor the tantalising susurrations of rage and vengeance. He instead, hears whispering. Voices hushed, and muffled as though behind a curtain, and when he strains to listen closer he sees that the black is not truly a vacuum, but a veil.

A veil, and as he draws deeper, and closer, and lower, and nearer, he sees something flash in the corner of his vision, fleeting and actinic like a flame, or a strike of lightning in the dark. He follows the flare as it leaps about, ephemeral and fugacious, doggedly trailing it until he runs it down to its source. 

There, in a sheltered hollow in the very centre of Obi-Wan, grows a little tree, and as Qui-Gon watches, buds begin to ripen, and burst, and unfurl into quicksilver blossoms of Light. 

He gasps, falling out of the trance and back into the solid reality of his Temple quarters with a physical jolt, gravity itself chastising him for his haste. His mind reels, then settles into the cool serenity which so eluded him last night. And in that place where he has felt something stirring for weeks, tender and aching, he notes the tremulous quiver of a narrow golden thread: the fragile beginnings of a nascent bond. He stares at Obi-Wan, the boy’s hands gripped tightly in his own, and Obi-Wan stares back.

“What is it, Master Jinn?” he asks, as though he is still blind, still calling out from behind the veil.

And Qui-Gon cannot answer him, because he has looked beyond it, and he knows something that he should have known before: this boy is _afire_ with the power of the Force.

  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love, my love to the skillful hand of the wonderful  kyber-erso 

It cannot wait.

He exhorts Obi-Wan to wash and dress, and bundles him out the door with what can only be described as immodest haste, judging by the looks they receive as they pass various Knights and Masters in the halls. Guiding the boy forward with one hand on his shoulder, his pace never slackens, and Obi-Wan is forced to jog every few steps to keep up. He pulls at the tabards of his Initiate whites, hauling them up over his shoulder as they slip and slide, newly acquired, but still over large on his frame.

They reach the southeast tower in a flurry of bared disquiet. The master’s outer robe billows, and curls about his ankles like clinging vines, his hair tangled, and loose. He doesn’t exhibit the indignity of flushed cheeks, or a wetted brow, but Obi-Wan does, and for a moment, Qui-Gon feels regret for the speed of their departure. But he is also galvanised, for these weaknesses can and should be overcome - with proper training. Training that he is now convinced Obi-Wan _must_ have. The Council will agree with him. They will understand.

They rest outside the Chamber doors. Qui-Gon has not requested a meeting, but he knows that there will be a few members in session today, and there are more in Temple who may be summoned if necessary. And it is necessary. He will petition them, and then Obi-Wan will show them what they’ve all been fools enough to miss.

He kneels, bringing himself level with Obi-Wan’s gaze. A Temple Guard makes a swift exit, disappearing between the doors to alert any present members, and Qui-Gon rests his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, regarding him with steady purpose. _He is remarkable_ , he thinks. And also: _here is an opportunity_ _._ But that second thought is vague, and half-formed even in his own head.

The boy stands before him, breaths still coming heavily, but held in check by a mouth pressed thin, and firm. He must feel Qui-Gon’s urgency, his anxiety, and excitement, and, with a jolt that is scarcely more than the brief twinge of a stitch in his side, Qui-Gon realises that he can feel the same emanating from Obi-Wan. Now that he has recognised the bond, felt it bombinate at the base of his skull, pressed it closed between the palms of his hands in supplicant homage, now that he knows it for what it is, it is so much easier to feel Obi-Wan creeping in, darting through his mind on tiptoe. He is surprised he has missed it before now, but knows that he has purposely denied the possibility. That he has guarded against it. Grown impenetrable. And now, he has turned away from himself for so long, that he struggles to know where his emotions end, and where the boy’s begin. Is he anxious for his sake, or is it Obi-Wan’s nerves he feels flaring up like flames licking at his chin? Is it the boy’s own excitement? Obi-Wan’s confusion? Is it both of theirs? Or is it only his, refracted and reflected through a vessel so carefully concealed in the Force as to be invisible, even to itself? 

All of these questions may be answered in the voice of the Council, if only they will test the boy.  
  
  
  
Obi-Wan says nothing, and Qui-Gon doesn’t know where to begin. The shoulders beneath his hands suddenly feel very small, and narrow. The frame they rest upon appears slight, and insubstantial. He fumbles for an explanation, some way to express to Obi-Wan that his whole world may change - _will_ change - but he can’t promise anything yet. Obi-Wan frowns, his lips pursing into severe contemplation of the harried master. Such a serious look, on such a young face, and Qui-Gon chuckles to see it, as though with enough determination, Obi-Wan might ponder out all the mysteries of the universe. Or, at least, of Qui-Gon Jinn.

He tugs down the rumpled tabards, holding the base layer taut at the hem, and brushing the lines of fabric into respectability. The sleeves he coaxes to lie straight and even at the wrists, and he runs a hand through Obi-Wan’s messy locks, combing them back from his brow.

“Your hair is getting long,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Obi-Wan agrees, then he stammers on to his next thought. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Qui-Gon assures him quickly, smiling, grinning, cupping Obi-Wan’s cheek in his broad hand. “But this meeting is very important. The Council will ask things of you, and I need you to do your best to answer them truthfully. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“No matter what you think they may _wish_ you to say, you answer what you feel is the truth,” he says. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees. His fingers fret at a sleeve, pulling that level line askew, and toying with it at the base of his palm, disguised from all but the most acute observation.

“Good boy,” he says, standing as the guard returns.

“Master Jinn,” they say. “The Council will hear you now.”

* * *

He is recalled into the Chamber after Obi-Wan has been in there for only a bare half hour. The child himself is escorted past Qui-Gon by the guard, his eyes catching the master’s, bright with fear, and confusion as he is ushered forward without pause.

Euphoric with the revelation of Obi-Wan’s gift, he plucks at the fledgling bond, letting his elation and confidence reverberate down the line in deep, rolling tones. The echoes of it ring about his head, tumbling down through his own chest and limbs, and he very nearly smiles, having forgotten for so long the feeling of such connection, as young as it is. 

Obi-Wan must feel it - feel _him -_ too, for he hears the boy gasp, hears him cry out, “Master Jinn!” and sees him twist about to reach for him, before he’s caught in the arms of the guard and Qui-Gon disappears from his view as he enters the Council Chambers.

The Council is less enthusiastic at this revelation.

“The boy will not be trained.”

“But... _why?”_ Qui-Gon asks, his voice resting on the exhalation of surprise and disbelief.

“He is far too old,” says Dooku, ever the traditionalist. “Never mind the fact that he is far too damaged for there to be any reasonable expectation that control or proficiency may yet be acquired.”

“ _Damaged?_ ” Qui-Gon repeats, aghast. “He is not - but you tested him. You must have seen: He is strong in the Force.”

“He is unremarkable.”

“Master -”

“Sensitive, the boy is. But more or less talented than any number of younglings within our creche, he is not. Only more troubled, is he. More darkness, he has faced. More fear, does he feel. More challenges, he has. More than our place it is to address.” The many folded ridges of the ancient master’s face are set into decisive lines, and Qui-Gon regards him in open mouthed shock.

“We are masters of the Force - of the Light - surely it is our responsibility to kindle that flame, to nurture it _wherever_ it is found?”

“Wherever reasonable,” Master Rancisis affirms. “But not indiscriminately.”

“You would call my petition for this one child, already within my care ‘indiscriminate’?”

“The crux of the matter is,” continues Rancisis, his fingers steepled as though adopted mannerism might demonstrate the sincerity of thought he’s put to this issue. “Young Obi-Wan is only a temporary ward of the Jedi. He is no son of any father, no child of any parent, no citizen of any planet. He has not come to us through any political avenue, and his presence here cannot be accounted for in any legally binding way. And you must concede that there can be no way that any child lifted from slavery may be kept as property of the Jedi who bought him. Think of how that would appear to the masses? We already have those who call us cradle-robbers, and baby-snatchers. Would you have us prove them right?”

At this, Qui-Gon cannot help the surge of indignant outrage that races over his shoulders, throwing them back and flinging his insult to the full reach of the Chamber. 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” he bites out, tutting at the offending master as though he were an ignorant fool, deliberately baiting Qui-Gon with increasingly absurd and unreasonable scenarios. This is, Qui-Gon thinks, precisely what he is doing, and he chafes at the mockery he is making of their sect by pandering to prejudice and bureaucracy, giving such trivialities weight at the expense of Obi-Wan’s life. “There is no merit to those claims, and none but fools believe them.”

“Careful, Qui-Gon,” Dooku murmurs, as the Council members shift in the upswell of discord. “Such arrogance suggests _much_ merit in our own decided caution.”

The fluttering wingbeats of injured rank settle, cloaks folding over hands, and chattering voices of protest falling still once more beneath the veneer of calm. Qui-Gon, too, collects himself, and levels a glare at his old master. Dooku meets him with a grim smile.

“Be reasonable, Jinn,” Rancisis suggests, his voice placating. “And consider: the boy has come this far without knowledge of the Force - he still is nearly wholly ignorant of it, even living amongst us, here. Clearly, it’s absence has done no harm. And it is my opinion, as well as the opinion of many, that revealing it to him could prove disastrous.”

“He is ignorant because he has placed himself behind a veil,” Qui-Gon protests. “He has cut himself off from the Living Force out of necessity, not out of desire.”

“Then surely, he does not suffer its loss.”

Qui-Gon’s objections are so vehement, so instinctive that they begin to bottleneck in his throat, choking him with disgust. “It is not a gift that you may choose to withhold or bestow,” he says, pulling the words from where they cling and stick to his insides like taffy. “It is a right. _His_ right. By birth. By the will of the Force.”

“And what if he should leave us, half-trained? What if the fear should prove too great? What if he should Fall?” asks Dooku. “Would you then call it the will of the Force? Or should we look to you to bear the blame?”

“This boy deserves a master!”

“And yet, you are hardly the master of yourself, let alone anyone else, my Padawan."

  
  
For the first time, true silence descends upon the room, and on the bloody plain of Qui-Gon’s defeat, Master Dooku proclaims his sentence.

“It is the decision of this Council that the boy Obi-Wan, former slave, and temporary ward of the Order be neither trained, nor counseled in the ways of the Jedi.” Qui-Gon would speak, yet Dooku anticipates him again, and rattles on atop his protest. “This is not another pathetic life form you may cling to and nourish in some misguided quest to atone for your past. This child is not your child, Qui-Gon Jinn. He is not your legacy. And he will never be your apprentice.”

* * *

He finds Obi-Wan waiting in the hall. He sits, his legs swinging, heels kicking at the stony underside of the bench he rests upon, his hands flittering, darting forward and back, and tapping at Tahl’s fingers as she teases him through some childish clapping game. He laughs, loudly, the sound bouncing off the stark walls. Then recovers, fighting for control as Tahl overcomes whatever cunning he’d employed to best her, clasping his hands in hers. She grins, murmuring something secret and delicious that sets Obi-Wan off again. He throws his head back, and wrenches his hands from Tahl, tumbling sideways, catching sight of Qui-Gon as he falls.

“Master Jinn!” he exclaims, scrambling to his feet. His grin is still wide, and wild, and Qui-Gon is taken aback to find it directed at him. To think that Obi-Wan might be happy _for_ his presence, not merely in spite of it. But the condemnation of the Council still rings high and sharp in his ears, and he cannot let that feeling germinate . He spares Obi-Wan a tight smile in return, ruffling his hair to hide is disquiet, before turning his frown to Tahl.

"How did you know?"

"Jocasta summoned me," she says, reading foreboding in Qui-Gon’s face. “Obi-Wan, would you be so sweet as to run back to your quarters, and prepare us all a pot of tea?”

The boy nods, and races off. Qui-Gon thinks, for a moment, of scolding him for improper haste, but then, out of spite, or resignation, he does not. What respect should this child hold for an Order that would deny him his rights, even as they swore to restore them?

Tahl must sense the tenor of his thoughts, for she slips her hand in his, the heavy folds of their robes disguising their intemperance as they follow slowly in Obi-Wan’s wake.

“The Council has denied you, then?” she asks.

Qui-Gon nods. His neck is stiff, the action far more formal than he’d held himself in audience to the same. 

“They would not even consider it,” he says. “They will not make Obi-Wan a Jedi, and I am forbidden to train him as such.”

They are quiet for some time, each pondering on the injury that has been dealt, considering the ramifications, and results, and thinking on the piteous, ignorant victim of this fate.

“Perhaps, it is for the best,” Tahl suggests, as they draw nearer to Qui-Gon’s quarters, and he draws nearer to control. 

“How so?” he snaps, the words brittle, the embers of his upset still burning hot.

“Look at you - you are not yourself. You rarely agree with the Council, that is nothing new, and yet now, when they finally meet you in accordance on a matter, you turn around and defy them anyway. Was it not your own stated intent that you would not seek out another Padawan? Yet here you are, distraught because the Council would uphold that decision. It looks very much like contrariness for contrariness' sake.”

“This child has known nothing but heartache, and sorrow, Tahl,” he says, as they reach his door. Beyond, he can feel the little spark that is Obi-Wan bustling about, clear and contented. But he does not go in. Instead, he turns to Tahl, and implores her to understand. “The Light burns bright within him. It is the same light in you, in me, in all of us. Would you deny yourself that bliss? I know you would not. You would sooner give up your sight, or your limbs, or your life. It is a part of us. It is a part of him. How can we - in good conscience - deny _him_ that?”

“But why _him?_ ” She insists. “There are dozens of Initiates all eager to be apprenticed, many of whom you have already refused, and many of whom will age out. They have all been blessed with the Force, and they stand to lose the life they know here. Is it not cruel to deny _them?_ What makes Obi-Wan more deserving than they are?”

His gaze, solemn and sure meets her own, then softens as it dances over the contours of her face, the sweep of her cheekbones, the curve of her lip, the query of her brow. He is fond. He is tender. He is moved by her, touched that she should speak to him so freely, and with earnest opposition. Her catechism is compassionate, and it has fortified his resolve.

“Because,” he says, smiling in the face of her doubt. “It is the will of the Force. He needs me.”

She tilts her head, and smiles back, though her eyes are clouded with something edging on pity.

“Perhaps,” she says, pressing her hand to his heart in farewell. “But I think it’s you who needs him more.”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahaha, I don't know what I'm doing anymore. But I'm here! <3
> 
> Oh, crap! I should mention - the "pebble" thing is a bastardization of Mrs. Pearce's line from Pygmalion by Shaw, and the Chakora Seva wisdom is an equally twisted version of Tolkien. I'm showing you my skirts.
> 
> And Chakora Seva is forever stolen from ruth baulding.
> 
> And, for my FOURTH edit, because I am an idiot who should think for two seconds before she posts, let me just say -
> 
> The spire that Qui-Gon climbs is a direct reference to Reputations by  outpastthemoat  . I think, more than any other author in this fandom, I have been awed and inspired by her work. The way she has expanded Jedi culture, and the way she has shaped Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, and Tahl, have all irrevocably coloured my own conception of them, and this is meant to be a little nod to that.
> 
> You will also find in this chapter, art by the insanely talented  kyber-erso 

He is not disobeying the Council. He is not.

In point of fact, he is very carefully following their decree. He does not take Obi-Wan as a Padawan. He does not dress him in the traditional creams. He does not crop his hair close, or weave a small length of it into a braid. He would not have him call him _Master_. But he does make a vow. This boy will not go on in ignorance.

So perhaps he will not apprentice Obi-Wan. Perhaps he will not set him to games of _push-feather,_ or send him off to Master Drallig for saber instruction. But he will guide him. His hand is gentle - just a zephyr at Obi-Wan’s back, a suggestion, a little nudge in the right direction, and he congratulates himself on his subtlety. But he knows Tahl is watching him when he brings the child to the Archives every time just a little brighter, a little Lighter in the Force, as though he were some priceless work left long to languish in a forgotten hall, but now brought out, and dusted, and held up beneath the sun.

“What are you doing with that boy?” she asks. Her eyes remain fixed on her screen as she scrolls through the text of a century’s worth of taxation records for the now extinct Yvenia’vyte peoples of Maltha Obex recently recovered and brought to the Temple, to be translated and transcribed. Her expression is focused and unwavering. Her mouth barely moves. All of her displeasure is lodged firmly in the tone of her voice which sparks past her lips in a wry mutter.

Beside her, Qui-Gon Jinn squints at his own screen, pulling titles, and requesting access to documents on a wide variety of subjects, ranging from politics, to language; from archaeology, to the proper way of accepting a gift in fourteen different systems. 

“I can’t begin to guess what you mean,” he replies.

She sighs, and rises from her place to hover behind Qui-Gon’s shoulder, and read.

“What’s any proper Core world boy want with a book on obscure Outer Rim tribal practices?” she asks.

“Ah, well,” Qui-Gon hums. The terminal beeps a confirmation that his datachip has been successfully updated, and he removes the slender chip, depositing it in a pocket at his waist, a smug grin pulling at his lips. “Perhaps they’re not for Obi-Wan. Perhaps they are a special interest of mine.”

“Really? And what about _Ethnic Groups and Boundaries of the Colstev System_ ? Or _Neocolonialism and the Fuong Tiin Dynasty, Volume I?_ ” She asks, dropping an arm across his shoulders, and leaning forward to flick through his lending record.

“Cultural studies.”

“And _Conversational Twi’lek_?”

“I’ve suddenly found myself in need of formative revision.”

“Qui-Gon,” she warns, and he yields happily, turning his head to gaze up at her, his smile breaking wide and approaching laughter.

“Would it make any difference to you if I said the last is actually true, and that I always read the texts first? To make sure they’re appropriate.”

“Appropriate for children, or appropriate for a Padawan?”

“Obi-Wan is not my Padawan.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
Qui-Gon tips his head, and says nothing. He flicks off the screen, and Tahl steps back to let him rise. “Qui -” she says, breaking through the shell of the consonant to hang on the open vowel. 

He’s spared any further expression of concern or misgiving by Obi-Wan’s timely arrival. He’s smiling, his hair now brushing his collarbone, and a proper book made on old style flimsi clutched in his grasp.

“Master Tahl!” he greets. 

Qui-Gon watches as the tension of imminent protest leaves Tahl’s body in a single, swift exhalation. 

“Hello there, Obi-Wan,” she says, reaching out to tug a tabard straight over the boy’s shoulder. “Have you come to collect your errant master? You know he’s not to be left unsupervised.”

Obi-Wan laughs, but his excitement is too great to be distracted even by Tahl’s shocking irreverence. He turns his eyes to Qui-Gon, and raises the book for inspection.

“Look at what I found,” he breathes.

It is not a thick volume, but it contains great beauty. Qui-Gon can feel the thrum of Obi-Wan’s delight as he leafs through the pages.

“It is beautiful, Obi-Wan,” he allows, pausing over the image of an ancient Knight kneeling at the feet of his master. He wears robes not too dissimilar from those which hang from Qui-Gon’s own frame, with wide sleeves and a trailing hem of humble, undyed fabric. But the master is adorned in a glittering gown, a chaplet wrought from fire and starlight upon her head. She looks down upon the knight with an expression regal and terrifying. Her saber seems to spring from her hand as though an extension of herself, both the blade and her aspect, radiant and divine. Untouchable. Unknowable. Except for there, in the corner, where her other hand lies against the shoulder of the knight. His eyes are raised to hers, and where a brief study may show only the terrible aspect of a god, Qui-Gon thinks he sees the subtle profession of tenderness and care in that modest touch.

“And see?” Obi-Wan says, reaching up to pull the book level with his chin. He flips the page, and points to a few paragraphs of text. “It’s a story about Master Galaaz Heb Haefden and her Padawan - only Master Nu says that back then, they were called Holy Lords of the Order.”

“Does she?” Qui-Gon asks.

“Mhm,” Obi-Wan continues. “She says that Master Galaaz and her Padawan were famous, and travelled through the whole galaxy, through the unknown regions, and to the very edge of the outer rim, and it was _there_ , looking out into the black beyond, that the Padawan Fell into darkness, and got lost. And Master Galaaz tried to save him, but he ran away out of fear, and shame, so she chased him. They met again on moons, and on the tops of mountains, and over oceans, until finally, she fought him on the back of the great _Ruhk’anar_ of Mandalore. But he could not come back, and she could not kill him, so she threw down her blade, and as he stepped close to pierce her with his saber, she pulled him into an embrace, and tumbled them both over the edge, where they fell into the sea and drowned.”

“I remember,” Qui-Gon says. He pulls the book away, closing it so quickly the pages snap together, punctuating his sentence with more force than he intends.

Obi-Wan flinches back, his fingers curling into his palms, a question on his lips, but Tahl steps in to soothe the sting before it can blossom into injury.

“Did Master Nu say you could take the book out of the Collections room?” she asks.

Obi-Wan nods. “She gave it to me,” he says. “Not to keep, but she said that if I promised to be very careful, I might even take it back to our room so that I can read it later.”

He turns to Qui-Gon who still holds the book, frowning over the illustrated cover, his fingers tracing the raised images, considering the title. _A Compendium of the Myths of Alsakan and Coruscant._

“It has a lot of stories in it, Master Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan says, his voice small and conciliatory.

Tahl bumps her shoulder against his own, as she collects the book and returns it to its proper keeper.

“When was the last time Jocasta let you remove a proper text from the Archives?” she teases.

“I maintain that _Faurin’s Fungi and Flora_ was a work intended to be used as compost for all the supposed usefulness of its text.”

Tahl laughs, and Obi-Wan’s mouth crooks into cautious amusement, wrapping his arms around the book and pulling it flush to his chest.

“Have you pillaged the Archives to your satisfaction, young sir?” Qui-Gon asks.

“For now,” Obi-Wan replies, an eyebrow raised in prim impudence.

“Then let us return to our quarters so you may devour your literary victuals without fear of the public incivility of unbridled enthusiasm,” Qui-Gon says. His voice is warm, and laughing, and he runs a broad palm over the silk of Obi-Wan’s hair, smoothing it back, and resting his hand across his shoulders, urging him in the direction of the exit. 

Obi-Wan sets off, skipping ahead, but Tahl catches Qui-Gon at the elbow as he moves to follow. She has not forgotten.

“Qui,” she says. “What are you doing with that boy? You know what the Council said.”

He frowns at her. He can see the weight, the worry in her amber eyes, and it confounds him.

“I am making him fit,” he replies. “Just as the Council decreed.”

“Fit for what?” she asks.

Qui-Gon says nothing, but shrugs, tucking a challenge into the quirk of his lips and the glint of his eye. Her own mouth twists, and she looks at him with something he fears borders on resentment or disappointment.

“Don’t,” she warns. “He is not a pebble to be plucked from a stream.”

“You would have me leave him, then? Put him back in the stream where I found him?”

“I would caution you. I’d beg you to be careful,” she says. “He is not a thing to be held in your pocket for your own benefit, and dropped wherever you see fit.”

“I have no intention of _dropping_ him,” Qui-Gon hisses. “It is the Council who will not see reason.”

But she remains unmoved.

“I would hope that at the very least, you see _him._ Not a Padawan. Not a project. Not a pebble. Not Xanatos.”

“I have made my choice,” he says.

“I hope you understand it,” she replies.

Qui-Gon straightens at the accusation, and pulls away. But Tahl does not raise her eyes to follow him. She does not bare her throat. She turns her back, and resumes her position at the terminal.

* * *

In their quarters, Qui-Gon attempts to ply Obi-Wan with tea and treats. He loads his datachip full of serious texts, and interplanetary treatises onto Obi-Wan’s ‘pad, and sets him questions for mealtime discussions. Obi-Wan is diligent in his studies. He reads every text. He asks Qui-Gon for clarification, and he prepares responses for Qui-Gon’s own sophic exercises with increasing thoughtfulness and insight.

Time passes, and eventually Qui-Gon feels as though he might spend time away from the boy. He attends seminars. He spars with Mace, and occasionally with Clee Raha who finds her way back to the Temple after several years undercover, thirsty for some competition to keep her blade whet. He meditates in the Room of A Thousand Fountains, walks beneath the hanging gardens in the north wing, and climbs up and down the spire for clarity when his mind proves too restless to still without physical exertion. Some of these are things he hasn’t done for years, and he is struck more than once with fleeting surprise at his own absence.

_Has it really been years?_

Obi-Wan stays behind. He has books to read, and skills to learn. He ought to be practicing his writing, which Qui-Gon has taken great pains to infuse with a sophistication often neglected in this age. Commlinks, datapads, navconsoles, and protocol droids rarely require an elegant hand, but that does not mean the art lacks value. More often than not, Qui-Gon will turn over a discarded piece of flimsi, or flick on a pad to find brief excerpts of speeches, or poetry copied out in shaky lines. The boy is determined to master his own name, writing it out over, and over, and over again until the curves of each letter become smooth, and graceful with the familiarity of instinct. _Obi-Wan._

But for all the care and dedication Obi-Wan applies to his studies, at night, Qui-Gon nearly always finds him curled up in bed with myths and legends, and he worries that Obi-Wan has fallen in love with fiction.

“Lights out, Obi-Wan,” he says, his hand hovering over the switch.

“Just one more story, Master Qui-Gon,” he pleads. “They’re short.” 

And Qui-Gon relents, but his dreams are filled with long dead knights, and lords, and blades that burn like fire, the hilts ablaze in a conflagration of light so wild, so different from the steady beam his own saber holds. He dreams of heroes, and villains, of people bound to each other through more than spoken words, lives woven together by more than coincidence, but by duty, and devotion, and chivalry, and love. He wakes to find Obi-Wan asleep, the light of his bedside lamp still aglow, sallow in the blue of a creeping dawn, the book strewn open across his lap, the pages open, and the golden arc of their bond sparking in the back of his mind. He slides the book from beneath limp hands curled in sleep, and sets it aside, turning off the lamp. He vows to load more journals and academic essays to his chip tomorrow. They have years of lost study to make up for, and dreams all pass in time.

* * *

Tahl, helpful as ever in suggesting appropriate volumes for Qui-Gon’s ostensible betterment, has unfortunately taken herself off to aid in a restoration project on another planet. Apparently fascinating, and apparently quite a lucky find, she assured him from the docking bay that the dig site, uncovered by an earthquake, was likely to be destroyed by an equally intemperate event, and therefore her expertise could not arrive too quickly for the local scientists’ liking. 

Thus, he finds himself subject to the indifferent mercy of Jocasta Nu.

It’s been nearly a year since he’d misspoken in Council Chambers, and at least fifteen since he’d failed to return a small, and not uncommon text to her care, but she has yet to forgive him for either. 

She makes no sound as she uploads each title on his list, but her brows are raised in sustained and unrelenting scepticism of his judgement. And she takes her time with each. Qui-Gon smothers a sigh, and glances behind him to where Obi-Wan sits ensconced in a small nook beneath a southern facing window, his feet tucked beneath him, and a small holoprojector in his hands. He watches the boy watching the drama unfold in blue ghosts above his palm. His brow is set in a furrow of deep concentration, completely absorbed in the story. The figures are Jedi, and they exchange strikes and parries. Obi-Wan shifts, mirroring their movements, a smile growing on his face until the final blow falls. A small yelp of delight, a restrained salute of victory - both are aborted abruptly as young voices rise above the silence of the Archives.

A group of Initiates, perhaps ten or so, and lead by a dignified creche-master enter the halls and pass by, headed to the data visualization studios. As they move, walking in two uniform lines, they chatter amongst themselves, nudging their partners, and laughing at the shared intimacies of youth. 

Obi-Wan’s face goes slack, his eyes wide and wondering, as he sinks back into the seat, observing, but not observed by them. He watches as they parade the entire length of the room, listening, trying to catch a brief snippet of conversation, trying to pair the sound of laughter with a particular face. He follows their progress until he’s caught. A small Mon Calamari girl with pink skin, and silver eyes at the end of the line looks back, her eyes catching Obi-Wan’s in the pool of light at the window. He withdraws, and she turns back, following her age mates into the studio.

Jocasta Nu sniffs in annoyance.

“It’s wrong of you to keep that boy cloistered in your rooms like something secret. There’s no shame in his presence here - only in your response to it.”

Qui-Gon fixes a patient smile to his face.

“Thank you, Master Nu,” he replies.

“He should be in classes with his peers,” she grumbles, more to her screen than to Qui-Gon’s face. He is not quite deserving of her direct address, and he can’t help but chafe at her implied criticism.

“You know better than most that such a thing is impossible,” he says. “The Council decreed he was not to be trained.”

“As a Jedi, Jinn,” she snaps. “That has nothing to do with education.”

“I am educating him,” he replies. She throws him a highly dubious glance.

“You’re filling him up with histories, and sciences, and mathematics, and things well beyond any little boy’s capacity for interest,” she says.

He disagrees. 

“Obi-Wan is special,” he tells her. “He is gifted in the Force. He is strong in it, and he deserves to be pushed to the maximum of his significant potential.”

“He deserves to be educated,” she agrees. “But he is not special.”

Qui-Gon bristles. He shifts his balance to align equally between both feet. His shoulders square to her. She tuts in scornful irritation.

“He is _not_ special,” she continues. “No more than any other of those children who just walked by without inciting your barest interest.”

“You don’t know him as I do,” Qui-Gon declares.

“And you know him less than I,” she counters. “Obi-Wan is a sweet boy, and he has come a long way, but it is not because of any extraordinary gift. He is no smarter, no stronger, no more gifted in the Force than you, or I. His only mark of exceptionalism lies in his devotion. He is responsible for his success. He excels because of his dedication, of his perseverance, because of the sheer effort he chooses to invest. He grows in strength, and in knowledge, and ability because it is his will that he do so, not the Will of the Force. His accomplishments are his own, and you do him a great disservice to suggest otherwise. You come in here week after week and load up your chit with endless tomes about impossibly serious topics. You hide him away in your rooms. You dress him as an Initiate and yet you keep him from their society -”

“And you send him holoprogrammes of imaginary knights, and books about thrilling adventures, and gallant heroes, and beautiful maidens, and lost parents, and fallen children, and broken hearts, and distract him from the things which would make him capable of being _in_ the world, and not in his head, separate and imagining it. If you would see him among the Initiates then perhaps the Council should not have been so eager to deny my request to train him.”

Jocasta is unmoved by his protest. Her face is stern, every line carved as deeply as though they were marked in her very bones. She stands, and hands him his chip. As his fingers close over it, she places another volume in his hands. It is old, but not ancient, and printed on exceptionally thin flimsi.

“The decision was not unanimous,” she says, her eyes steady and dark as they hold his own. “And tell Obi-Wan he may keep this one.”

She releases the chip and the book into his care, and Qui-Gon steps back, breathing deeply the serenity of the Archives. Master Nu moves on silent feet, stalking across the narrow gap between her desk and row of datastacks, disappearing in the blue light.

He looks at the book in his hands, dreading yet another grand romance, or fairytale. Instead, it is a book of Jedi proverbs and tenants. He opens the front cover. The Code, in an older iteration, has been copied out by an unknown person across a wrinkled bookplate, and beneath it, scrawled in the same hand lies a short inscription.

_Obi-Wan,  
  
_

_“Despair is found by looking outside ourselves and seeing nothing but the Dark. How happy then that Hope is Light fed by light, and that which may be kindled and carried within._ _  
_ _\- Jedi Master Chakora Seva, c. 700 ATC_

 _  
_ _I hope you may find as much comfort in the wisdom of Master Seva as I have. May the Force be with you._

_  
J. Nu_

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure I'll come back having forgotten to thank someone later. Other than the usual suspects. Scruffy. Pom. Kyber. Trees. Moats. Looking at you, beans. <3

Obi-Wan is different from the Temple raised children of his Initiate classes, and he knows it. He’s watched them, passing through the Archives, or clumping together in groups at tables in the commissary. None of them hesitate to speak when they’re asked a question. None of them are slow to express delight, their laughter bursting hot and loud instead of creeping quietly along the narrow edge of a smile before leaping bravely into sound. None of them avoid eye contact, and they all have many years of shared society to direct and nourish their interpersonal conduct. Obi-Wan flounders, and his deficit makes him nervous - not of a harsh reprisal, but of exclusion. Qui-Gon can tell, can feel it in the hand that tenses around his own, and the bright crick that flares in the back of his head like a sunburn in the evening as he walks him to class.

“You don’t have to come  _ all _ the way,” Obi-Wan says, tugging on Qui-Gon’s hand. He doesn’t pull away, but instead pulls himself closer to the Jedi, as though in conference he might pull compassion through the length of Qui-Gon’s arm, and through his fingertips, drawing from him an understanding of a desire Obi-Wan cannot quite articulate.

“Of course not, little bird,” he replies. “I’m sure you’ll find the rest of the way alone.”

The boy nods. So, Qui-Gon loosens his own grip, and lets Obi-Wan go.

He walks the length of the last hallway quickly, his back straight, his shoulders set, and he only looks back once. Qui-Gon waits for him to turn the corner and go out of sight before letting his own posture droop just slightly. He closes his eyes, reaches to the Force for release, and reaches for their bond no longer tender and new, but a sturdy sapling growing wild and unpruned between them. He touches it gently, a fond caress of the wind through the leaves, and feels a rush of relief surging back, cool and bubbling like water between his toes. Obi-Wan is getting better at that. Getting stronger. He should not encourage it.

He thinks that, with this duty so neatly dispatched, he might wander down to the salles. He’d been worried about seeing Obi-Wan off to Initiate classes for a week, but it seems he's worried for nothing after all. Obi-Wan was fine on his own. His hands feel tight, his knuckles stiff as though they long to be cracked. A blade in his palm, and a friendly bout may work some pliancy back into the tendons there.

But the salles are empty of competition, so he moves swiftly through seven katas, all with technical and perfunctory efficiency but none of them connected in true mastery. This has always been a sure release for him, and he sighs in dismay as he returns his saber to its optimal setting, and holsters it at his belt.

Perhaps a meal, he thinks. And then later, perhaps some meditation in the gardens. 

After both, he reflects. Standing between two intertwined  _ madden _ trees, looking out over the city sea of Coruscant he wonders if his continued unease is not perhaps a sign of encroaching cabin fever. He has come to no conclusion or relief when Mace Windu finds him deep in the afternoon with a message on his lips.

“The Council has seen fit to send me here as a messenger,” he says.

Qui-Gon laughs and turns to him. “Ah, the great Master Windu reduced to a lowly commlink operator. What did you do to deserve such punition?”

“Nothing at all,” his friend replies. “I am merely doing a favour in accordance with their will. It is you who seem to have mislaid your commlink. Or have you shut it off on purpose to aggravate them?”

“My -” Qui-Gon reaches to the empty pocket of his belt before remembering. “Ah, in fact, I believe I left it in my quarters after midday meal.”

“You do not always carry it with you?”

The tall master throws his companion a sly, disdainful glance that would suggest the answer is well known between them, then says, “I had not intended to be away so long. It seems my mind is rather distracted. Obi-Wan walked  _ himself  _ to classes today.”

He leans on the pronoun in a way that speaks of both loss, and pride, and makes Mace frown.

“And if it weren’t the Council, but the boy that needed you, would you regret leaving your commlink behind then?”

“I have every faith that Obi-Wan is capable,” Qui-Gon replies. He folds his arms into the sleeves of his robe and rests them against his chest. 

Mace grunts out in an undignified and sceptical response. “Or maybe you have some other method of reaching him,” he suggests. Qui-Gon says nothing, and Mace continues. “I’ve been asked to inform you that the Ministry of Registration and Resettlement have finally seen fit to bestow citizenship upon your boy. The papers are drawn up, and all that remains is for Obi-Wan to sign them into action.” He hands Qui-Gon a datachip. “The address, the date, and the location of the office you’re to bring him in order to make everything official.”

Qui-Gon accepts the chit without expression. 

Mace draws his cloak in a billowing miasma of disquiet around him, and folds his hands in front.

“You probably don’t want to hear this,” he begins. “But if you’re going to stop, stop now. Before it’s too late to change course.”

Qui-Gon nods. He watches Mace leave, knowing just as well as his friend does that it’s already too late.

* * *

This is all _very_ new, he thinks.

It’s a quiet thought. He murmurs it to himself, behind his hands, muffled in the very forefront of his mind, right against his skull where the strange, and lovely humming thread cannot feel the vibrations of his speech. It’s not that he doesn’t wish the master’s presence in his head - in all things, really - but he doesn’t wish to reveal himself to the master. He does not want him to know that he is afraid.

It’s not the Jedi way.

He smothers that thought along with the first, and takes a deep breath, feeling a gust of cool air rise up through his consciousness and sweep out the soot and cinders of doubt from his mind.  _ Qui-Gon _ . Obi-Wan exhales, awash with relief. He closes his eyes, and tries to strum that note of gratitude upon the string between them. He pushes it out, and feels it come back to him like the tide. He thinks he almost gets it.

“ _ Peregrine _ Obi-Wan, I presume?”

Obi-Wan startles to find a tall and hirsute alien with ears unlike anything he’s seen, and a snout bigger than his head standing behind him. He steps back, stumbling into the room before remembering his resolution and planting his feet. “Yes, sir,” he says.

The man kneels to be more of a height with him, and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Hush, there,” he says. His voice is rough, and low and comforting in the way of a crackling fire. “I am Docent Sy’Katu. I understand you will be joining Dragon clan for midday studies, is that so?”

Obi-Wan glances up to take in the room over his shoulder. A half dozen or so children, all close in age, peer curiously back at him, straining their necks for a better view, or making unnecessary perambulations about the room to catch a glimpse. He twists his head back, brow furrowed, and studiously aloof in order to address the Docent.

“Yes, sir,” he agrees again.

“That’s excellent news,” the man says. “Would you allow me to introduce you to the class? That way you can learn their names, and they can learn yours.”

Obi-Wan bites at his lip, but he cannot find fault with the man’s logic. “Alright,” he reluctantly concedes.

The docent smiles, and places his hand at the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck, guiding him towards the front of the small lecture hall. Aware that the satisfaction of their curiosity is imminent, the other younglings fall rapidly into their seats, hushing each other, and turning all their eager attention to the front.

There is silence as Obi-Wan is placed before them. He stares at them as openly as they stare at him, but the weight of many eyes is heavier than the brief assessment of a single set. He feels their judgement hollow out his chest, and batter at his spine, and he rounds his shoulders instinctively. The docent rests both his hands upon Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and stands squarely behind him, facing the onslaught bravely. Obi-Wan is bolstered by this, and leans into the touch.

“My dear Dragon clan,” the Docent begins. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to a new classmate. He has come a long way to join us, and I hope that you will make his stay a happy one. Please welcome  _ Peregrine  _ Obi-Wan.”

“Hello,  Peregrine Obi-Wan,” the class parrots in unison.

There is a brief pause. Everyone waits. Perhaps he was meant to say hello back. He turns to ask the docent, but is halted in his query by the sound of a single voice.

“ _ Peregrine?” _ The voice belongs to a tiny Mon Calamari girl. “Does that mean  _ Padawan?” _ Her skin flushes pink as all the eyes turn on her and whispers erupt, and she slides deeper into her seat.

“It means he’s not a Jedi,” chides another voice from somewhere near the front. Obi-Wan shifts to see a little girl, younger than he is, but bold and self-assured in a way he thinks is not for him. She has blue eyes, and pale skin, and hair the colour of the honey kept in Qui-Gon’s pot, and when she speaks, her tone is high, and clear. “It means he ‘comes from away’. Aren’t you the little slave boy that Master Jinn won gambling for a ship?”

A brief shout of laughter pierces the stunned silence that has fallen. A boy his age leaps upon his seat in zealous mockery. Obi-Wan stares at the girl, her frank expression showing neither scorn nor shame, and he feels the docent tense behind him.

“Initiate Chun! That’s quite enough,” he says. There is a bite in his tone, and the laughing boy dismounts from his perch to sit docile once more, his smile fading as the docent’s stern disapproval is turned on him. “I know you have a much kinder heart than you have demonstrated by your behaviour. Because of this, I’m entrusting Obi-Wan to your care. You will be in charge of introducing him to your clanmates, and easing his way.”

“But -”

“Are we not here to study etiquette and diplomacy, Initiate Chun?”

The boy nods, white hair falling over his eyes as he drops his chin to his chest, the weight of shame finally bowing him.

The docent continues. “Then consider this a practical demonstration of your skill. Obi-Wan, you may join Bruck at his desk.” He gives Obi-Wan a brusque pat on the shoulder that he knows is meant to bolster his courage, but feels much more like the abrupt unmooring of a ship in wet dock, gravity and inertia fighting in his guts, and flipping his stomach briefly up into his chest. He feels the girl’s eyes on him as he passes by, and hears the docent call to her. “Siri Tachi, you will remain after class.”

He doesn’t twist to catch her reaction, but keeps his eyes on his feet all the way to Bruck’s table. The boy kicks out the chair beside him, and Obi-Wan falls into it, wrapping his arms around his middle, and feeling very, very small.

The rest of the lesson passes in silence.

* * *

They eat in their quarters, and they’re quiet over dinner. Qui-Gon keeps throwing him curious looks, the creases at the corner of his eyes and across his brow growing deeper and more shadowed as evening draws close.

Eventually, with their plates emptied, and contemplative over tea, Qui-Gon asks, “How was your day?”

Obi-Wan shrugs, running a finger over the rim of his cup, dipping it in the brew and then pressing it to his lips to feel the intricacy of the sensation. Qui-Gon takes a sip.

“Did you meet anyone interesting?”

Obi-Wan thinks. He remembers the boy with the barking laugh, and the girl with hair the colour of Qui-Gon’s honey. He remembers the way the class stared. He remembers their silence, and their harrying curiosity. He remembers the Mon Calamari with pink skin, and a pinker blush, and hesitates.

“The docent was Bothan,” he replies.

Qui-Gon says nothing, but sips his tea again. They sit some more in the tension of their disquiet before a chime breaks them from their reverie.

“A visitor,” Qui-Gon announces, rising to answer the door. Obi-Wan waits, swirling his tea, and frowning. Then Qui-Gon’s voice calls to him from the other room. “Obi-Wan, it’s for you.”

He sighs, and slides out from his chair, treading with weary step to answer the summons. At his approach, the master smiles, and steps aside, his hand falling to Obi-Wan’s shoulder in comfort. “I’ll leave you to your confederacies,” he says.

And though it is meant kindly, Obi-Wan regrets his parting immediately, for on the other side of the threshold is Siri Tachi, her jaw set, and golden nectar in her hair. He swallows.

“Hello, Initiate Tachi,” he says. 

Her brows draw together, and she cocks her head. “You remember my name?”

He nods, but says nothing else, though she waits for him to continue. But he can’t. His mouth is dry with embarrassment and shame. She sighs.

“Well, anyway, I wanted to come talk to you,” she says. “Do you mind?”

Obi-Wan checks over his shoulder, as though Qui-Gon might refuse her request, but the master is not there, and Siri grows impatient.

“Not your master,” she says. “ _ You _ .”

“Oh...what about?”

She takes a deep breath, and squares her shoulders. She looks him dead in the eye with all the confidence she addressed him earlier, and when she speaks, her voice rings just as clear.

“ Peregrine  Obi-Wan,” she says. “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for calling you a slave. Docent Sy’Katu explained it all to me, and I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I didn’t truly understand what it meant, but I do now, and it was very wrong of me.”

“Oh,” he says again, stupid with surprise. “That’s all right -”

“No, it isn’t,” she continues. She lifts her chin, and flips her hair over her shoulder with an imperiousness he finds frightening. “Slavery is a terrible thing, and no one should  _ ever  _ belong to someone else. I think it’s wrong. I think it’s horrid, and - and,” here she hesitates for a moment, biting her lip and hovering between the wisdom of her well-schooled thoughts, and the counsel of her heart. “And I don’t think that it’s  _ true _ . No one can ever  _ truly  _ own you. Not your spirit. Not your heart. Nothing can. Not even the Force. We belong to no one but ourselves.”

Obi-Wan's head seems to rise of its own volition, his mouth falling agape in wonder, though Siri must comprehend her own blasphemy in his awe for she races to quell any protest.

“Only don’t tell Docent Sy’Katu I said that,” she exclaims in a rush of warm air. “Jedi aren’t supposed to own  _ anything. _ ”

“Okay, Initiate Tachi,” he murmurs, too nonplussed to disagree with anything she could propose.

“Well, okay then,” she replies. “And you can call me Siri.”

“Thank you, Siri.”

“That’s all right, Obi,” she says, reaching her hand forward to grasp his own, lying limply at his side. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m glad you’re in my clan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note on the use of "Peregrine"
> 
> So, basically, as a child welcome to study in the Temple, the docent means to address Obi-Wan with an honorific worthy of his status. This is important because it demonstrates the respect that Obi-Wan is being shown, while at the same time showing his "othering". He is not a Jedi. He is not an Initiate, or a Padawan.
> 
> In reality, young boys are referred to as Master (ex. Master Obi-Wan), but of course, in the Jedi culture this would obviously not be the case since Master is a different rank of title. I needed something that they would bestow on an outsider. A visiting scholar, perhaps.
> 
> "Peregrine" is an archaic English word that means "from another country" or "foreign". Which is what Obi-Wan is.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's entirely for  outpastthemoat  my tireless cheerleader and inspiration.
> 
> And  Pomiar  who has all my love.
> 
> I'm [tessiete](https://tessiete.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, and the gorgeous, stunning art in this chapter is by the lovely [new-anon](https://new-anon.tumblr.com/)

One night, a few weeks after Siri Tachi’s remarkable espousement of freedom, Qui-Gon announces to Obi-Wan that they are going out.

“Into the city,” he elaborates, as he helps Obi-Wan into his cloak, a miniature replica of the master’s own. “We have an appointment to keep.”

There is something tense in the aspect of Qui-Gon’s shoulders, and they way he doesn’t quite make eye contact with Obi-Wan, his eyes skimming just over his head to gaze briefly at the skyline of Coruscant visible beyond the comfortable depths of the sitting room. Obi-Wan turns to look, wanting to see what the master sees, wanting to know without asking. He’s come to learn that there are many things that Qui-Gon thinks but doesn’t say. He can feel it: a sharp twist, a cold dread, a snaking, clinging longing for something that spins and wheals in Obi-Wan’s mind but is caught and released before he can see it clearly for what it is. And Qui-Gon smiles, his mouth thin, his face lined, and Obi-Wan doesn’t ask.

But there is nothing outside the window that hasn’t always been there. The city is bright, and cold. The room they haunt is dim, and warm. Safe. Obi-Wan has seen too much of the galaxy, and yet nothing of it. Since coming to Coruscant, he hasn’t left the Temple. But he dons the cloak without question, and follows the master through the vaunted Temple halls until they’re walking through the forest of freestanding columns, and passing beneath the towering figures of old masters, their likenesses hewn from stone. Their progress goes otherwise unobserved, but Obi-Wan looks back to see the statues watching him, and reaches for Qui-Gon’s hand feeling acutely the judgment of long dead Jedi.

Qui-Gon must feel Obi-Wan’s worry fraying in his mind like dry twine, or in the tightness of the grip that clings to his hand, because he squeezes back, gentle and reassuring, and at last, looks at Obi-Wan and smiles.

“Nothing to fret about, little bird,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

* * *

Dex’s Diner is like nothing Obi-Wan has ever seen before. It’s bright, and loud, and too small for everything inside it. As a result, people pulse and sway around each other, leaning close and brushing by in an indecipherable flurry of skirts, and suits. He presses against Qui-Gon’s hip to avoid the invading swirl of a great, velvet cloak as someone exits, and their own entrance is hailed by an enthusiastic shout of welcome.

“Qui-Gon Jinn, you lousy son of a gundark! Where you been?” 

The crowd parts, the writhing mass shifting to allow the passage of a monstrous being. Four arms reach out, and the colossal form pulls the master into a tight embrace. Obi-Wan stumbles as Qui-Gon is pulled away, leaving him clinging to the edge of his robes, exposed in the wake.

“Hello, my friend,” says Qui-Gon, affably as he extricates himself from the embrace. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s been a long time,” replies the beast. “But not long enough that I’ve forgotten about those forty druggats you owe me.”

“Aha!” Qui-Gon laughs, clapping the being on his two uppermost shoulders. “I’ve not forgotten, I’ve just been somewhat preoccupied. Obi-Wan?”

He turns, his hand outstretched to the boy, and Obi-Wan, trusting the Jedi implicitly, steps toward the awful creature.

“This is Dexter Jettster,” Qui-Gon continues. “The proprietor of this fine establishment.”

As Obi-Wan makes his approach, the behemoth kneels, and suddenly Dexter is not nearly so imposing as Obi-Wan thought. He holds out a hand, and Obi-Wan extends his own. It is not a Jedi greeting, and it is not how he’d choose to make his own introduction, but he is not in the Temple. He is in the city. He is amongst strange people with strange customs, and Qui-Gon is watching him, so he grips Dexter’s hand firmly, casts his eyes to the floor, and says, “Pleased to meet you, Master Jettster.”

But this, too, must not be quite right, because Qui-Gon tenses.

“Obi-”

“Now, we’ll have none of that,” says their host, one massive finger curling beneath Obi-Wan’s chin to raise it up. “Jus’ Dex is good enough for me, young Obi-Wan.”

Dex smiles, his hand warm around Obi-Wan’s, clasping it gently, and without thought, without fear, Obi-Wan finds himself smiling back. 

They’re ushered to a booth near the back of the diner. The table is tacky with age and use, the padded benches a little tattered, and the window smeared with grime. But as Obi-Wan slides to the corner, and Qui-Gon slides in beside him, he thinks he may have found a little haven, looking out at the world without thought that anyone is looking back. 

He sinks down into the warmth of Qui-Gon’s robes, blanketed and pillowed against the master, and gazing out the window as though he were dreaming. The sound of Dex’s laughter, and Qui-Gon’s own easy amusement washes over him, and through him, the agglutinating roots of his master’s thoughts keeping him close, and contented. A woman passes, her hair piled high in complicated coils and fretted with silver struts and bars. A group of men jostle each other, all dressed alike though their features mark them out as Twi’lek, Rodian, and Barbadelan. He’s seen people like this before, but only from the corners of his eyes, and now he’s permitted to stare at them unabashed, to look at them as equals, to observe them with curiosity instead of terror. 

[ ](https://new-anon.tumblr.com/)

“Are we near the Senate?” he asks, breaking through the meandering conversation of his chaperones.

Both men let their recollections drop in favour of hearing Obi-Wan, turning to him in their seats. 

“Why, yes,” Qui-Gon says. “We are. Why do you ask?”

And Obi-Wan points out at the crowd beyond the window.

“They all look like the sort of dignitaries we used to receive when I -” He falls abruptly silent. “Never mind.”

Qui-Gon is looking at him very closely, and even Dex has gone somber and still. There’s a moment’s pause that Obi-Wan uses to pick away at the peeling synthleath of the booth, before Dex clambers awkwardly to his feet.

“How about I fix you boys up with some sliders, and fizzy-bips? Hm? You like the sound of that?”

“Obi-Wan?”

“Yes, please,” he mumbles. 

Dex chuckles. “Alright then. Be back in a bit.”

Obi-Wan goes back to watching the window, while Qui-Gon watches him. He can feel it. But, true to his word, only a few minutes pass before Dex returns laden with an excess of greasy, rich food. It’s nothing like anything served at the temple - including the sticky-staff, or the piece of Bama bar Bruck had given him after he caught a Junior Padawan sneaking back from carnival the previous week. The sliders steam where they rest against each other on the foodboard, sagging against each other, the square patties slipping beneath the weight of condiments, soaking up the flavourful drippings of the meat. Beside them lies a serving of nerf nuggets with special sauce, and alongside them, protato wedges, thick and hot, fill a basket. Dex completes his service with a flourish, depositing not only two bubbling tumblers of fizzy-bip, but also, for Obi-Wan, an impossibly large and unsettlingly blue milkshake. 

Obi-Wan eyes it suspiciously, as Qui-Gon thanks their host.

“It’s on the house,” Dex insists. “Thanks to your boy’s good manners. But you still owe me those druggats.”

“I won’t forget,” Qui-Gon assures him as he walks away. He disappears into the crowd, somehow managing to be swallowed up, though his presence cannot be diminished. Obi-Wan hears a table hidden somewhere near the front raise their voices in riotous welcome, and he imagines that Dex must have found them, too. 

“Eat what you like,” Qui-Gon instructs. “But no more than you desire. Dex is always generous to his favourites.”

“Then you must often go hungry,” he replies. Then freezes, his hand hovering over a slider, his eyes wide and locked on Qui-Gon’s face.

The master, too, looks stunned. But only for a moment. Then he’s laughing. Obi-Wan hunches in close, mortification coursing through him, leaving his toes tingling, his gut churning, and a sour taste on his tongue. Then, as swiftly as the tide of his shame rises to overtake him, Qui-Gon is there, the seeds of his joy bursting through, and unfurling in vernal delight.

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” he says. “You have no idea.”

His eyes are blue, and lines run from them, as though his face has splintered and cracked where happiness cannot be contained, and bursts through. Obi-Wan risks a smile, and then a laugh, and then a slider. Soon, they are absorbed in their meal, and Obi-Wan thinks that this moment might be the only thing he’ll ever claim ownership of, for how deeply he wants to hold it in his heart, and how earnestly he seeks to possess it.

But, of course, it ends. It must.

He draws in one more sip of his milkshake, extending the meal beyond the bounds of his own appetite, and Qui-Gon wipes his hands then leans back in his seat. The crowd has thinned out as midday becomes midafternoon, Coruscant’s day proceeding in a strictly civil fashion. At last, well fed and watered, Qui-Gon’s sights alight on Obi-Wan, and his expression turns ponderous.

“You can speak about it, if you’d like,” he says. “What happened before. To you.”

Obi-Wan swallows, and surveys the table.

“I shouldn’t like to,” he says, forestalling any further reply with a protato wedge.

Qui-Gon hums in low acknowledgement, waiting. Obi-Wan eats another wedge. And another.

“Look at that one, out there,” he says, leaning sideways to catch sight of some sleek speeder as it zips by. But Qui-Gon doesn’t look, and so he misses it. 

“If you should like,” he says, instead. “I would listen.”

Obi-Wan makes no reply. He doesn’t even glance at Qui-Gon, as he licks his fingers clean of salt and grease, only to realise he has no napkin upon which to dry them. Taking pity, the master reaches over with his own to chafe the grubby fingers dry on the flexinap.

“There is something I should like to speak to _you_ about, however,” he says.

“Oh?”

“Do you remember many months ago, when we spoke of freedom, and what it meant for your future?”

“Yes,” replies Obi-Wan, dread sitting heavy and cold in his stomach. He brushes his hands free of any lingering crumbs, and draws them up into his sleeves. “You said that I must get well, and healthy, and then that I would be sent to live with a mother. And a father. But that’s -”

“That is still some way off” Master Jinn reassures him. “But today there is still some good news -”

He doubts it. And he isn’t so certain that the Jedi feels much different than he does, for there is no bright comfort flaring up in the back of his mind. But Qui-Gon continues as though he is as sincere and unmuddied as he claims.

“The Senate has seen fit to confer citizenship upon you,” he says. “You are now a person under the law.”

Obi-Wan’s brow crinkles.

“Am I only meant to be a person now?” he asks.

“No, you always have been, only now the rest of the galaxy must recognise this, as well. You are free everywhere. Just as I said,” Qui-Gon insists. “Now, all that remains is for us to sign a few forms to make it so. I know you have long been practicing your signature.”

“And then what?”

“Let us worry about that later,” the master says. “Focus on the present. ”

Qui-Gon slides out of the seat, but Obi-Wan does not follow. The Jedi turns back to regard his charge, his face still furrowed in some profound and unhappy rumination. The aisle is narrow, and already he’s impeding traffic, and drawing attention, so he settles himself back into the booth, enclosing them in private conference as he leans over the table to speak to the boy.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Am I to be sent away after tonight?” he asks, staring at the remains of their food as though the meal had known a secret, and betrayed him in keeping its counsel. 

“Of course not,” Qui-Gon affirms. “No, I would never - this is not a farewell, Obi-Wan. This is a celebration. You are your own man, now.”

Obi-Wan looks up at him, hopeful and pathetic.

“Then I’m staying with you? At the Temple?”

He watches as Qui-Gon's face goes tense, the corners of his mouth pulling taut, and the tendons in his neck racing to brace the weight of a guilty conscience. His answer is cautious, and slow.

“For now,” he says, and Obi-Wan feels his own mouth twist in disgust.

“Until I belong to someone else,” he says. “A mother, and a father. Until someone else wants to own me.”

“They will not _buy_ you, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon corrects. “They will _choose_ you.”

“Why can’t _you_ choose me?”

At this, Qui-Gon withdraws, pressing his back into the upright splat behind him. A cold wind blows between them, and Obi-Wan can feel tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, as he tries to swallow back an ocean.

Qui-Gon’s voice is light, quiet, as though he would not disturb these waters further, aware of the undercurrents pulling at his legs.

“Obi-Wan, you know that this is impossible. I belong to the Order, to my duty. I am Jedi,” he says. “And you are not.”

He clenches his jaw, and refuses to blink.

“Siri says that you can’t belong to anyone, or _anything_ except yourself,” he declares.

“Initiate Tachi is very young, and has yet to understand a great many things,” Qui-Gon says. “She is right to say that you cannot belong to someone else, but you may indeed _give_ yourself to someone. Or something. To a cause, or a faith, or a purpose. I have given myself to the Jedi.”

“And I shall give myself to _you!_ ”

“And that is a noble gift,” he allows, “But I cannot accept it. As a Jedi, I have forsworn all such things. It is not you I must refuse, Obi-Wan, it is the attachment between us. I am not your father.”

“Then what of the boy,” he demands, the words coming faster, coming louder as he feels himself slipping under. “The boy before me, the one who lives in my room, who lives in the shadows and who you see at night? What of Xanatos -?”

“Enough!”

The Jedi slams his palm flat against the table. It is reflexive. There is no danger, but the cutlery and place settings leap up in surprise, and Obi-Wan’s jaw snaps shut. Qui-Gon’s eyes close, and he breathes deeply sweeping out his upset and disquiet.

“That’s quite enough,” he repeats, softer now. “It is my weakness. Not yours. And we are wanted at the senate.”

He stands, and waits for Obi-Wan who drags a sleeve over his face then clambers out of the booth. His robes are askew, and his eyes red rimmed and raw, but he gathers himself with as much dignity as he can manage, and bows to the Jedi.

“Thank you for the meal, Master Jinn,” he says.

* * *

When they arrive at the senate building, they are directed to a tiny office well off the main concourse. The lettering above the door reads “Registration and Resettlement” in tidy Aurebesh, and inside the lonely official asks Obi-Wan to follow her into a private room, leaving Qui-Gon Jinn behind.

“We just need you to fill out this form,” she says, directing him to a seat, and pulling up a short document on a datapad she passes over. “And sign here. I’ll be just outside when you’re done.”

The door swishes shut behind her as Obi-Wan studies the small pad in his hands. A registration form fills the screen, its checks and boxes blank as it patiently waits for him to fill in the final confirmation of personal data that will see him recognised as a full citizen of the Galactic Republic. 

Name: Kin:

He fills the first box out easily enough. Then hesitates on the second.

Name: Obi-Wan Kin:

He wonders what to put there, wonders what kin he might claim. But it is not an abstract fantasy that he thinks on. He knows which name he would write. If he could. 

_Jinn._

He would write "Jinn." He longs to do so. He wishes for it with every piece, every fiber of himself, aching to claim this one thing for himself, to have this one piece of someone he so desperately yearns to keep. But he knows that it is impossible. He does not belong to Qui-Gon Jinn, for Qui-Gon Jinn won’t have him. And Qui-Gon Jinn is not his.

Obi-Wan belongs only to himself.

And so, with nimble fingers, and a spirit set in determination, Obi-Wan completes the registrar’s form, his perfect aurebesh punctuating the space.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, the structure is ALL over the place on this one. But we just had to get back into it, and the best way to do that is just...jump!
> 
> Come at me though, if you like. 
> 
> Seriously. Come chat.
> 
> I'm [tessiete](https://tessiete.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> I'm also late for work.

* * *

He is going to be sent away.

He knows it. Master Jinn has told him directly, more than once, but more than that, more than hearing it spoken in that plain and hollow way that the master uses when he doesn’t particularly believe something himself, he can _feel_ it.

It is a strange thing he has discovered, this awakening. Perhaps it is merely the effect of being surrounded by so many Jedi, but there is something in him reaching out, and here, in the Temple, there is something reaching back.

At first, it had only been the way that Master Jinn had lingered in his mind, like the warmth of hand on the cheek. But it didn’t sting, not like a sharp slap, and it didn’t ache like a bruise. It was softer. Kinder. It warmed him in the way that a hot cup of tea did, cradled in his palm, its radiant heat soothing his cold fingers, and relaxing the tense muscles of his hand. It was the same kind of warmth that seems to spark and kindle in his belly when Master Jinn ruffles his hair, or when Master Tahl brushes her hand across the back of his cloak, so that it lies flat and proper.

“A proper Jedi,” she says, and her voice is also warm, like her hands.

But it is not only them. Before he could even articulate the thought, he started to notice it in other Jedi, too. In Master Nu, as she stroked the spines of her holos, humming to herself as she tucked them safely on their shelves. In Docent Sy’Katu, when Bruck struggled with a particularly difficult astronav problem and came out victorious. In Siri Tachi, when she took his hand and forced him to sit beside her in lessons last week. In Bant, the tiny Mon Calamari girl, when he shared the last of his muja muffin with her, and she smiled. And now, he sees it in everyone.

And perhaps that is what makes the Jedi, he thinks, that warmth. He is afraid to ask, but he thinks that this warmth is what separates the Jedi from the rest of the galaxy because the Temple is _full_ of it. And it must be catching, because he is on fire.

Which means that what Master Jinn said before is...wrong.

  
The thought is vile, and terrifying, but having thought it once, he can’t help but think it again, and again. Maybe he was right before, maybe when he first arrived and he was cold and scared all the time, maybe _then_ Master Jinn was right, and Obi-Wan _couldn’t_ be a Jedi. But he has changed. He’s warm, now. And he’s going to prove to Master Jinn that he’s made a mistake.

He can feel it.

* * *

Perhaps, his favourite class is Docent Vinn's lectures on Galactic Literature. Perhaps, it is no surprise, for it is a class filled with fairy tales. Dragon Clan is learning about the Basst Dynasty, and while Obi-Wan doesn’t know much about their history, he's learning to read it in the way they tell their stories. These people - all dead and vanished now - wrote about evil men returned to good. The docent says they had suffered under terrible regimes, and had been ruled by cruel tyrants, until they had been stripped of everything but this final, desperate hope. They clung to it. And they put it in their stories. All the evil doers, and villains find peace in the gilded edges of forgiveness granted at the very end.

“Some people may do wrong,” says Docent Vinn, as they hover over their texts, “And some will forgive them.”

“Who?” Asks Bruck. “Who would forgive a monster? And why? They’re just monsters.”

“The Jedi would,” answers the docent. “The Jedi do.”

Siri tosses her head in the way that means she finds something particularly offensive, and is spoiling for a fight. The air seems to crackle around her, and her hair becomes electric. She grips Obi-Wan’s hand tight beneath their table.

“I wouldn’t,” she declares. “Some people do such bad things, I don’t think they deserve forgiveness.”

“Well, what if they are sorry?” asks the docent, his eyes dark and soft as he regards Siri warmly. “What if they regret what they’ve done, and they seek to change?”

“They’ve still _done_ it,” she says. “They can’t change that.”

“I suppose not,” Docent Vinn agrees. “But perhaps what they will do _next_ also matters, and maybe forgiveness is what allows them to grow to something better. Forgiveness lets us reclaim the lost.”

Siri twists her lips, and shifts, patently unconvinced. Her hand is hot, and sticky around Obi-Wan’s, and he can feel her outrage building. 

“And if they don’t?” she demands. “What if they _don’t_ want to change? Are we supposed to forgive them, anyway?”

“Yes,” the docent nods.

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Siri declares. “I couldn’t.”

The room falls silent for a moment. Siri holds the docent’s gaze, unbowing, unflinching in the face of this lesson. Then Obi-Wan speaks.

“I could,” he says. “I’d want to. I’d forgive them. I’d want to - to let it go.”

“You’d want to forget it?” Siri demands, her upset turning to him.

“No,” he says. “I’d never forget. But I’d...I think it might make...it’s like setting down a weight, isn’t it? It’s still there. It doesn’t move. I just don’t have to carry it with me, anymore.”

“That’s a very mature perspective, Peregrine Obi-Wan,” the docent says. He rests his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder for a moment, the warmth of his hand seeping through the fabric before he proceeds down the line, illuminating his pupils as he goes, expanding on the principle of forgiveness.

Siri’s hand still grips his own, and she pulls him close as the docent passes them by. 

“I’ll never forgive them for what they did to you, Obi-Wan,” she’d whispers in his ear, her voice hot and rough. “ _Never._ ”

She leaves him at the end of class in a swirling tempest of outrage, and so it is that Bant has the courage to speak to him, unguarded as he is.

“How come you don’t come with us to afternoon lessons?” she asks.

“I’m not an Initiate,” he says.

“Oh,” says Bant. Her eyes, wide-set in a permanent expression of wonder, flicker with uncertainty before she gathers the courage to go on. “Well,” she hums, “You could still come watch, couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to?”

Obi-Wan watches as the rest of his clan exits the room, Bruck’s bark of laughter echoing down the hall, two other boys tripping and chasing each other as they go.

“Yes,” he says. “Am I allowed?”

Bant shrugs. “You’re part of our clan. We want you to be there.”

He follows her to Dragon Clan’s first lesson, and it is as though all his fantasies, all his dreaming, every novel, and story, and fable he’s read since Master Jinn first thrust one into his hands have come true.

The children stand in two rows, and Obi-Wan stands with his back to the wall. It’s chilled in this room. The walls are high, and bare stone though huge figures with fluid forms have been painted across them. Sunlight pours in from the skylight above. The floor is spread with mats, one for each Initiate. Some are old, and worn, while others are new, the plastoid still squeaking underfoot. Bruck, and another boy, Garen, jostle to claim one of the new mats, stepping on each others’ toes until Bant is gracious enough to offer up her own to Bruck.

The boy considers without abdicating his tenuous foothold in Garen’s kingdom. Bant’s offer is tempting, but it would place him in the back corner of the room, farther away from the teacher, farther from being the centre of attention, but…

After a few seconds of careful deliberation, he accepts. There are benefits to being out of sight. 

Bant throws Obi-Wan an apologetic glance as she moves to occupy the faded mat on Garen’s right, and Obi-Wan straightens, tucking his hands into the oversized robe he wears, and ducking his head. 

“Oh, you came, too, did you?” Calls Bruck, as he approaches. “About time you stopped slacking off.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but feels a heat rise up his throat and spill across his face when it is denied egress from his tongue. Bruck scares him. Not in the way he is used to being scared, so it took him some time to put a name to it, but in other ways; in his open arrogance, in the confidence of his voice, in his certainty of his place. Obi-Wan envies him, and thus he feels his scrutiny a thousand times more keenly.

“Leave him alone, Bruck,” hisses Siri.

Bruck sticks out his tongue, but any further hostilities are ended as the teacher enters the room, and assesses the students in front of him.

“Good afternoon, Dragon Clan,” he says. 

“Good afternoon, Master Ree,” the group choruses.

And Obi-Wan stares. Because just then, the Chagrian Master ignites his saber, and for the first time, Obi-Wan sees a Jedi Knight. 

Of course, Master Jinn is a Jedi, and Master Tahl. And the Council. And Madame Nu, but the man before him is bathed in an actinic green glow, and the whole space seems to spark and crackle as though the air itself has come alive in anticipation. It flurries around his head, skating across the back of his neck, and lifting the hairs upon his arms to stand straight up, and he feels as though something is about to happen. Something _must._

Master Ree swings his arm, and the blade _sings_. It is a low, reverberating hum, and Obi-Wan can feel it strike against something inside him, setting off an echoing chord of harmony. He steps forward, compelled to move closer, to see, to touch, and then -

Light erupts around him.

The rest of Dragon Clan stands, their own radiant blades leaping from the hilts in their hands.

“Good,” says Master Ree. “We shall begin with Form One. The Still Waters Kata. Once together, at my tempo, and then once, on your own - still my tempo.” He smiles, then drops into a low crouch, his legs planted wide, and both hands upon his blade. “Ready?”

Dragon Clan follows, and then, all in time, they move as one. It is every dream Obi-Wan ever had in the dark, but now, he’s awake. His eyes are open, and he cannot leave _this._

“What’d you think of that?” grins Bruck, after class is done. His blond hair is lank with sweat, and his face is red but he’s grinning, and pressing against Obi-Wan’s shoulder as though he were a droid directly jumped by power cables. 

“It was beautiful,” says Obi-Wan. His reverence is such that, while it confuses Bruck, it is also sufficiently deferential to his prowess. He claps Obi-Wan on the back, drawing him from the wall towards the exit and their next class.

“Peregrine Obi-Wan,” calls a voice, and Obi-Wan turns back to see Master Ree waiting for him.

Obi-Wan stops, freeing himself from Bruck’s grip. 

“See you in the next one,” the boy calls, before disappearing with the rest of the clan.

Obi-Wan nods, before turning back to Master Ree and falling into a respectful bow, longer and deeper than any Master Jinn has taught him, but he feels his humility profoundly here.

Master Ree astounds him further by bowing back. 

“So you’re Jinn’s boy,” Master Ree says. “Interesting. Come, walk with me.”

* * *

Obi-Wan never makes it to the next class. Or the one after that. Or after that. Finally, one day after Galactic Literature, Siri corners him at the door. 

“Bant says you’re supposed to come to Master Ree’s class with us.”

Obi-Wan is shocked. That is definitively _not_ what he had spoken about with Master Ree. Beyond the frame of the door, jammed open with Siri’s foot, Obi-Wan can see Bant milling about, waiting for the outcome of Siri’s persuasion.

“Did Master Ree say that?” he asks.

“No,” says Siri. “Bant said. And we all did. You’re a part of the Clan and it’s not fair you don’t go to afternoon lessons with us.”

Obi-Wan sighs.

“I’m not allowed to.”

“Did Master Ree say that?”

“Yes, actually,” he says, his tone rather more sharp and clipped than Siri is used to, and her brows raise in surprise. Obi-Wan feels badly for the slip, and falls into an explanation by way of apology. “He said that it had been discussed amongst the masters, and the Council, and that particular lessons meant for Jedi were not suitable for me to attend, as it might be confusing and distracting for other Initiates.”

“Why would it be distracting?”

“Because I am not a Jedi,” he says, setting his jaw so that his pronouncement is firm and even. “And I am not staying.”

“Fine,” says Siri, throwing back her head. “Have it your way.”

Obi-Wan glares at her, though she remains undaunted, and unmoving. Finally, his fingers clutching at the strap of his bag, he tucks his chin and shoulders past her. She lets him go, but the contact leaves him shaky, and his pace slows enough that she catches up and passes him on her way to collect Bant.

As he watches them go, he feels a creeping cold prick at the tips of his fingers, and he chafes his hands to warm them up. At the end of the hall, Siri spins on her heel to deliver one more threat.

“If you won’t come to class,” she says, “We’ll just come to you.”

Hours later, he sits in Master Jinn’s quarters, the remains of last meal set out before them as the Jedi sips indulgently at his tea, and Obi-Wan adds honey to his. There is a new awkwardness between them, one that has been growing since their trip to the city, and Obi-Wan feels more and more like he is being made into another ghost haunting Qui-Gon’s rooms.

“Your identichips came today,” Qui-Gon states, his voice loud in the silence. 

He rises, and returns, taking from beside one of the potted ferns a small envelope of chits, and cards. He turns the package over to Obi-Wan who opens it curiously. His own face, solemn and white, stares back at him from one card. His name from another: Obi-Wan Kin’Obi.

Qui-Gon joins in their evaluation over his shoulder.

“It seems they’ve made a mistake,” he suggests, pointing at the odd conjunction of his new surname.

“No,” says Obi-Wan. “I like it like that.”

He feels Qui-Gon’s fingers tighten slightly over his shoulder, but before he can otherwise question or criticise this development, the door chimes and the Jedi moves off to answer it. Obi-Wan carefully tucks the identification back in the envelope, and sips his tea, letting its perfect sweetness soothe his tongue, and warm his core.

“Master Kin’Obi,” calls Qui-Gon from the front. “The caller is for you.”

He sets down his tea to join the master at the door, and just as ever, Qui-Gon leaves him to his confidences. And once again, it is Siri who awaits.

Siri, and a few other members of Dragon Clan. Bant is there, nearly invisible behind Siri’s back. And Bruck, scuffing his feet against the wall to a rhythm of impatience. Garen, too, and Reeft - a Dressellian Initiate who once loaned Obi-Wan a holo about a boy who swallowed so much sadness he became a mountain. 

“Hello,” he greets. Bant waves back.

Siri, it seems, is in no mood for small talk.

“Are you busy?” she asks. “Right now?”

“No,” he admits.

“Then grab your bag, and tell Master Jinn you’ll be back late.”

“I can’t -”

Siri sidesteps him to call into the depths of the quarters beyond. “Master Jinn?”

So summoned, Master Jinn dutifully appears. “Yes, Initiate Tachi?”

“Obi-Wan is going to be back late. We have a lot of homework to do.”

Never, in his time at the Temple, has Obi-Wan _ever_ left homework so late in the day, and never would he have complained of it being “a lot”, and _never_ would he so boldly lie to Master Jinn’s face. He spins to face the master, an objection and the truth on his lips, but Master Jinn smiles benevolently, and rests his hand gently on Obi-Wan’s head. Something liquid pools in his brain, its warmth overflowing the grail of his own emotions and spilling down his spine to fuel the embers banked and blooming in his gut, and the words are caught in the face of Qui-Gon’s delight and pride.

“Homework, is it?” the Jedi says. “Perhaps you’d like my own assistance if it is so difficult, and so much as to require so many of you.”

“Oh, no,” Siri says. “No, it’s us who don’t understand. Obi-Wan’s going to teach us.”

“Ah,” says Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan turns frantic, pleading eyes to the master, begging him to see that this is a farce not of his own construction. But Qui-Gon only smiles wider, and laughs. “Well, in that case, I wish you the best of luck. And back to your quarters before ninth bell, yes?”

“Yes, Master Jinn,” the group vows.

“Master -”

“Ninth bell, Obi-Wan,” he says. “Have fun with your friends. And tell me nothing of it.”

And without further warning, his bag is slung over his shoulder, and he is bustled out the door by a determinedly unsuspicious master, left to the mercies of his savage clan.

“Now,” Siri says, “Your _real_ lessons can begin.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, at this point, we all realise this is becoming Harry Potter in space, right? I don't know how, but here we are with a bunch of ickle first years. AND I HOPE YOU LOVE THEM!
> 
> Shocking, to get another chapter so soon, but I'm gonna try to do Nano, and therefore cannot be certain when I shall return. I wanted to leave you off with something more! MANY LOVES! MANY THANKS!

Siri Tachi is not a forgiving teacher.

In fact, within the first few minutes of Obi-Wan’s first lesson in lightsaber form and function it becomes abundantly clear that her particular skill set is far more suited to aggressive debate than it is instruction.

“No, no, no!” she shouts, thumping the pommel of her long wooden staff on the ground as Obi-Wan again fails to match her exacting standards. “It’s _left_ foot forward, _right_ arm back.”

“I like to remember it with a rhyme,” says Bant, encouragingly, opposite him. “Left foot steps, right arm preps. See?” She steps her left foot forward, and swings her dominant arm to the side, where she grips her own staff with two hands.

This does not help, and as far as Obi-Wan is concerned, makes no more sense than Siri’s shouted instructions.

Garen cries out from the corner of the room as Reeft scores a hit across the back of his shoulders, bringing their own duel to an abrupt end.

“We said _no striking_!”

“It’s not a real blade,” Reeft protests.

“It still _hurts_!”

“Focus!” huffs Siri. “And try again.”

Bruck stands to the side, balancing the tip of his staff on his palm, swaying slightly as his balance shifts. He, at least, seems to have found some discipline amidst the chaos around him.

The room they’ve chosen is small, and disused. It is located close to the Knights’ quarters, but due to the general absence of Knights, who are otherwise occupied with missions of their own, or more personal pursuits - unencumbered as they are by either Masters or Padawans - it rarely sees use as the lecture hall it’s intended as. And at this time of night, they are unlikely to be bothered. At least, according to Reeft, who suggested the space and survived Siri’s thorough interrogation of his choice.

“Now, on the count of three, step, swing, stand. Got it?”

Siri raises the staff, and her brow, evaluating the efforts of her two dedicated students. Obi-Wan grips the base of his own staff, and takes a deep breath. Bant smiles, her faith in him complete and, Obi-Wan feels, completely unearned. 

Siri’s pole drops, and she counts out a quick rhythm, punctuating the beats with the fall of her staff.

“ _One_ , two, three, _one_ \- No! Not like that. Do it _again._ ”

Obi-Wan feels his foot slip, his stance too wide, and he stumbles again as Siri’s frustration crescendos. Sweat drips down his face, and he drops his eyes to the floor, his own frustration warring with the utter humiliation he feels. Perhaps, Master Ree is right. Perhaps, Master Jinn won’t notice that he’s only been gone for a scant hour. Perhaps, he won’t even notice when he comes back early. Perhaps, these lessons were a bad idea. Perhaps, he shouldn’t stay here after all.

These thoughts begin to build, and swirl about his head, kicking up a tempest of doubt, and horrifyingly, he realises they come with rain. He can feel tears collecting in his eyes, and he gasps for air as a drowning man. Bant’s staff dips, her expression turning doubtful and concerned.

“Maybe we should take a break,” she suggests.

“No,” insists Siri. “He’s never going to learn anything if he can’t get past this first part. It’s _easy._ ”

“He’s never going to learn anything if you keep yelling at him,” declares Bruck, his gaze still on the precariously balanced staff. 

Siri turns to him, her voice deadly.

“Oh? And you think you could teach him better?”

The staff drops. Bruck snatches it out of mid air, then leans upon it, all ease and arrogance. “Of course, I could,” he says. “I’m better at saber than you, anyway.”

“That’s not true.”

“Ask anyone.”

“You’re not better at _teaching_ saber,” she parries, glancing around the room. Obi-Wan follows her gaze to find Garen and Reeft trading skeptical looks, and even Bant has her head turned aside, suddenly fascinated by the architecture of the space. Siri, too, can read the room, and she swallows. Obi-Wan bites his lip, feeling the heat of her embarrassment clearly in its proximity to his own. But Siri does not break. Instead, she lifts her chin, and throws her hair back. “Fine,” she says. “If you’re so clever then I guess you don’t need me. Good luck.”

And with that pronouncement, she tosses her stick to the floor and marches out of the room. 

“Finally,” says Bruck, smirking. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Garen, Reeft, come here and make yourselves useful.

Obi-Wan isn’t so certain. He still grips his staff in two hands, his feet spread awkwardly, afraid to move from the spot and cause any more discord. Though he took no part in the debate, his silence was a condemnation of its own, and he feels guilty for not speaking up...even if Siri _isn't_ exactly a natural teacher. Bant must feel something similar, because she meets his gaze with a wince.

“I’ll just go see if she’s alright,” she says.

And before Obi-Wan can muster the courage to announce his desire to join her, she’s left, and Bruck’s at his side, tapping the outside of his foot with the wooden shaft.

“Move it close,” he says. “You look like a _krykna_.”

Immediately, Obi-Wan slides his foot back.

“No, too far,” says Bruck. “Like this.” The blond boy finds his own alignment, falling into a perfect stance like he’s known nothing else. “See?”

He looks down at his feet, then back up at Bruck, mouth open but with nothing to account for himself. It looks the same. Obi-Wan does not see. 

Bruck sighs, then drops to his knees. He reaches towards one contorted ankle, but Obi-Wan flinches and steps away. Bruck pauses, then sits back on his haunches, looking up at Obi-Wan’s face with no judgement, only the simple confidence of someone who knows what must be done.

“I’m going to touch you,” he announces. “To show you how your feet should feel. It’s going to be way easier, I promise. Is that okay?”

Obi-Wan nods.

“But you’ve got to keep your head up. Don’t look at me - don’t look at your feet, or your spine will be all wrong and twisted and it will never work. Okay?”

“Okay,” Obi-Wan concedes.

“Okay.” Bruck reaches out again, and Obi-Wan keeps his shoulders square and his neck long. There is no danger, he knows, but it is alarming nonetheless to be manipulated by hands you cannot see.

But Bruck simply guides his foot into a different position, one slightly more in line with his hips, and with a light touch to his heel, he urges Obi-Wan to shift his weight forward.

“Stay on your toes,” he says, and Obi-Wan nods once more. “Then, from here, you’re gonna step, and swing.” He stands, placing his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and elbow to demonstrate the arc of the blade. “See? Easy.”

Bruck steps away, and Obi-Wan tries to recreate the step, but already he feels the ease of it slipping away. 

“Garen, grab Tachi’s stick and give us a count,” says Bruck. “And Reeft, you be Obi-Wan’s partner.”

The Dressellian takes up Bant’s spot, and shrugs sheepishly at Obi-Wan, the folds and wrinkles of his skin making him appear peculiarly sympathetic to Obi-Wan’s plight.

“We’ll go slow,” says Bruck. “Every time Garen hits the floor on the first beat - when he says ‘one’ - then you’re gonna step, alright?”

“Right.”

“And Reeft is gonna mirror you, right?” asks Bruck as he levels a threatening brow at Obi-Wan’s counterpart.

“Yeah,” says Reeft. “I mean, right.”

“And don’t you guys mess it up, or Obi-Wan will get to see a _real_ duel.”

Bruck steps back to the wall, crossing his arms to watch the display with all the gravitas of an aged master. “When you’re ready, Garen.”

And Garen begins to count. “ _One_ , two, three, _one,_ two, three…”

Obi-Wan stumbles into the first step, but the second is smoother, and the third is better than that. 

“See?” says Bruck. “Just like that. But a million more times, until you don’t even think about it anymore.”

Obi-Wan grins - _he’s doing it! -_ and he feels laughter bubbling up in his chest. His triumph is small, but it fills him completely, wheeling, and spiralling into joy, and distracting him from the present so that his foot catches on the next step, and he staggers to a halt, the staff dropping, its tip scraping across the floor. 

He looks up, braced for disappointment, but no one looks angry or annoyed. They’re all smiling. Bruck's mouth is crooked in a superior smirk, Garen lets out a whoop of delight, and Reeft taps his stick against Obi-Wan’s own, urging him to pick it up once more.

“Again?” he asks.

“If you think -”

“Again!” Garen cries.

“Remember your feet,” reminds Bruck. “Do it yourself this time.”

Obi-Wan hesitates, trying to apply the memory of a feeling to a specific pose, and Reeft leans close to offer some advice. “It’s just like a dance,” he says. “You’ve seen people dance?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan replies. “When I was...where I was before here. Sometimes we’d be called to serve at a - an event. And we’d see them dance.”

“So just like that,” says Reeft. “But now _you’re_ the dancer. So when Garen’s counting, pretend it’s music. And let it move your feet like music. Feel it.”

So Obi-Wan closes his eyes, takes a breath, and does just that.

* * *

A month or so later, and Obi-Wan has mastered all the basic steps of Form One (“ _Shii-Cho”_ Siri corrects, once, after Bant persuades her to return to their lessons), and learned enough of three different katas to stumble through them, haltingly. He thinks of each one as a dance, and thinks of the elegance and ease he’d been witness to in the past, and strives to emulate the shadows of his memory. 

At first, he’d thought it would be difficult to think about anything that happened _before_ , but more and more he finds there are some things that can be...detached. He lets go of the terror that serving at formal galas and grand balls engendered. He looks past the fear which tied his stomach into painful coils. He releases the tension created by the expectations of impossible perfection, and frees himself from the horror of being seen, singled out, and forced into the private service of some dignitary or other, an awful possibility which always lurked in the shadows of the Grand Hall on Vollinar VI, hidden just behind the marble pillars, or right outside the terrace doors. 

Instead, he holds onto the music. He thinks of it pulsing through his chest, in time with his heart, conjuring thoughts and feelings he’d never owned, before throwing them to the roof to drift invisible over the heads of the magnificent bodies below. He thinks of shimmersilk robes gilded in chalcedony beads. He thinks of tarelle-selweave shirts, and maynxwarp boots. He thinks of the sound they made as they swayed together, as though humming along to the music, and he moves his feet like they did, in time to Garen’s stick.

Reeft is easy to dance with, because he sings as he goes - quietly, so that Obi-Wan can barely hear it, but enough that he can follow along in its wake. Bant is patient, and moves so slowly that Obi-Wan often is forced to push _her_ in order to keep them in time. Garen is nimble, and flexible - he knows the most katas, but performs them with more passion than perfection - and Siri is the opposite, so strict in her form that she lacks the grace required to make them beautiful. Bruck is a middle ground, and it is Bruck who Obi-Wan seeks to imitate the most.

But for all his advancements, when the time comes to exchange blows, Obi-Wan never blocks a single hit.

“A touch!” cries Garen, spinning away. 

“Again?” groans Reeft, from where he stands, sparring opposite Siri.

Brucks drops his defence, and Bant, merciful as ever, steps back rather than swing for the kill. “How many times is that now? You’ve got to be able to stop _one_ of them, Obi-Wan. Even just by _luck!_ ”

But Obi-Wan shakes his head, a protest on his lips before he even considers checking it. “I’m trying,” he says. “It’s just that it’s like you all know where I’m _not_ going to be before _I_ do. I can’t block an opening I haven’t even left open yet. It’s impossible.”

“Well, maybe if Garen took it more seriously -” chides Siri.

“I _am_ serious!” The unjustly accused protests.

“No, it’s because he’s not looking at his hips,” says Reeft.

“He shouldn’t be looking at his hips,” counters Bruck. “He should be looking at his eyes.”

“And what about species that have no eyes?” Garen asks, in defense of his friend.

“Not all species have hips, either, genius!”

“Maybe we’re going too fast.”

“Maybe it’s too slow? Sometimes that makes it harder for me.”

The debate rages, but Bant is quiet, her head tilted as she evaluates Obi-Wan. Her gaze is thoughtful, but he doesn’t feel flayed open beneath it, and he bears her consideration without discomfort. She tips her head the other way, her silver eyes meeting his own anxious ones. “No,” she hums. “It’s not any of that.”

She takes him by the hand and out into the hall where it’s quiet enough to hear the space between them. A pair of Knights wander past, throwing them a curious look. Bant drags him deeper into the shadow of a towering column. They stand close, and once she is sure they are sufficiently out of sight, she drops his hand to look him in the eye. She tuts, the line of her mouth wide, and flat with consideration. 

“What?” he asks.

“You’re very strange, you know that?” she asks, and Obi-Wan drops his head so that the fringe of his hair falls over his eyes. “No, not like that,” she laughs, the sound of it gentle enough to soothe his nerves. “You’re just...you look bright, but you _feel…_ ” She struggles for a moment, searching, and searching before trying again. “Do you know this one time the clan went off world - it was before you came, and only a little trip at that. Just a jump, hop, and a skip to Duneeden to see the mountains, really. But I remember looking out the viewport at the stars. Do you remember the stars from when you came here?”

Obi-Wan nods.

“Well, I think you’re like that,” Bant concludes. “You’re very hot, and very bright, but very far away. Like stars through a viewport.”

Obi-Wan’s shoulders drop, and he feels a hopeless sense of disappointment flood through him. Distant stars. Impossible. He remembers hearing dignitaries talk about their worlds when he was younger, listening at doorways and around corners, and he remembers looking up to see those worlds, to see their stars and realising how far away hope lived from him. 

Bant senses the dimming of his spirits, and flutters her hand to call him back.

“No, no, it’s not a bad thing!” she protests. “We’ve just got to open the window, is all. Do you know how to meditate?”

“I think - Master Jinn showed me once. But I don’t think I’m supposed to do it.”

“Oh, that can’t be true,” Bant says. “ _Lots_ of people meditate, not just Jedi. And anyway, you do have the Force, so you must be allowed to use it. Now, close your eyes, and put your hands in mine.”

Her hands are cool, and soft in a way that he’s never felt before. Beneath the smooth, hairless surface he can feel the ribbon work of tendons and veins, her pulse beating steadily through them. Her touch is delicate. He feels safe with her, and in this public space, with his back to the open passage, he closes his eyes.

“Take a breath,” she instructs, as his palms grow warm against hers. “And follow me.”

They breathe together, and for a moment, it is much like it was with Qui-Gon. Everything is dark behind his eyelids, and he feels as though he must be careful not to disturb anything, not to step too heavily, or speak too loudly. But then, it is as though his eyes adjust, and colour begins to appear out of the darkness. The brightest spot is at the back - a little glowing tree with silver buds, and green leaves that calls to him, and which he waters diligently. It is Qui-Gon Jinn, and he steps closer to it, wanting to bask in the warmth it sheds like blossoms. 

But then he hears something else calling to him. Something far away.

It is a voice, but not a voice. There is a pressure, but there is no touch. Just a yearning that he longs to answer.

“Do you hear me?” Bant asks.

“Yes,” he whispers back. “But I don’t know where you are.”

“Come find me.”

He wants to, and then, as though the desire were itself enough, he does. There is a little sliver of light, like the sun peeking through the crack of blinds, the blush of dawn seeping in. He steps closer. He leans towards it. He reaches out.

“There you are, Obi-Wan,” says Bant. “I see you! Can you see me?”

“Yes,” he says. “I can.”

"Then let me in," she says.

And Obi-Wan Kin’Obi opens the window.

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look guys, nanowrimo is not my friend. But words are words, and I'm [tessiete](https://tessiete.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

In the middle of the night, when the lights of Coruscant glow orange and dim beneath the heavy sky, Qui-Gon Jinn awakens with a scream on his lips.

Only, the voice crying out is not his own. It is Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan - a room away, and wrapped in the clinging tendrils of sleep, but quickly breaking free of its web, and in Qui-Gon’s mind he can see fire and snow, and in his heart he can feel time beat out its rapid progress, and on his lips he can taste that fear still ringing out in darkness. 

He throws back his sheets, his feet bare against the short carpet and silent, as he crosses the gap between his room and Obi-Wan’s. The door slides open with a hushed gasp, and Qui-Gon enters. Obi-Wan is awake, sitting up, just a dark smudge against the shadows. A wraith haunting the room. But Qui-Gon Jinn is not afraid, and he does not hesitate to fall to his knees beside the sleep pallet, and reach out to the little ghost cocooned in starched white sheets.

“Obi-Wan,” he soothes, his hand coursing over the sweaty brow to clear hair from his eyes. “What is it?”

The child is breathing hard, as though he’s been running, racing, trying to outpace the terror of his dreams.

“I saw snow,” he gasps. “So hot it never melted, and two burning eyes watching me from the dark. There were shadows, and - and stars, and they moved around each other, sometimes touching, and where they touched they bled and went cold. And all the lights went out.”

Qui-Gon grounds himself in the feel of soft hair, and the hard floor below his knees, drawing strength from their certainty, and allows the twin winds of peace and calm to flow through him, and into Obi-Wan. The boy stirs, turning his face to the breeze, and to the invisible warmth of the sun that radiates from Qui-Gon’s palm where it rests against his cheek. This close, Qui-Gon can feel that little bush burning, the flowers turning over to fruit. This open, he can sense that Obi-Wan is reaching back, the waters of his inner sea tossing, churning up deep, unknowable things from the fathoms below. This near, and he can feel that there is a canal being dug, an estuary carved to form a connection between two places where before there had been only stone, a river to direct and guide and  _ channel _ power beyond the bounds of any forest, range, or sea...The Force  _ flows. _

“A nightmare,” Qui-Gon says, though he lies: he knows this was a vision. “Go back to sleep, my Obi-Wan. All dreams pass in time.”

Obi-Wan nods, obedient though no longer resigned, and slides down to huddle beneath the covers, curled towards the Jedi. His eyes close, and he clicks his tongue as though tasting sleep on the air. Qui-Gon pulls the blankets just a little higher, tucking them to be just a little more secure, and smoothing them down to ensure Obi-Wan’s comfort.

“Will you stay until I’m asleep?” the child whispers, as though fearful he might disturb the other ghosts that linger here.

Qui-Gon settles back onto his heels, and looks out the window to see the little lights, and thinks the shadows are not so deep as he remembered them. “Of course,” he says, and takes Obi-Wan’s hand in his. “Rest easy, little bird.”

He stays until the little hand goes limp, then returns to his room, falling into a deep meditation as he wades through the currents of Obi-Wan’s dreams.

* * *

“A vision, you say?” Master Yoda asks, furrowed and folded as though every deep thought he’s ever countenanced still lies heavy upon his brow, burrowing into his skin. He contemplates this new possibility with equal weight.

“I believe so,” replies Qui-Gon, steadfast and calm. “Surely now there can be no denying the wisdom in training the boy?”

“Hm,” says Yoda. “A troubling matter indeed, this is. And yet equally troubling, the origin of his newfound ability is.” 

“Were you not expressly forbidden from training the boy, Master Jinn?” Dooku’s voice resounds throughout the chamber, making the hall ring with his displeasure.

“I was,” Qui-Gon allows. “And I have obeyed that decree beyond the bounds of reason  _ or _ wisdom, Master Dooku.”

“Are you suggesting then, that this newfound... _ connection _ ...simply manifested itself?” prods Oppo Rancisis. His skepticism is writ large across his face, but beside him Sifo-Dyas folds his hands, and curls forward in consideration.

“It is possible,” the Master concedes. “There have been instances in the past of spontaneous connections to the Force being formed in young sensitives who’d previously been unexposed. Under duress, or…” he pauses, glancing around the circle as though suspicious of the culpability of the Council itself. “Or in the presence of strong practitioners.”

“Or perhaps, more likely, in the presence of disobedient ones,” comes Dooku’s rejoinder.

“If you would accuse me of disobedience, master, come out and be done with it,” replies Qui-Gon.

“Oh, I had not thought my accusation to be so opaque as to require further clarification,” says Dooku. “Though for your sake, I am willing to repeat the lesson, my young Padawan.”

“A forum for airing old resentment, the Council Chambers are not,” Yoda cuts in. He jabs his gimer stick against the floor, and twists his lips in profound displeasure at the display before him. “Unwise it is, to waste our time with past grievances. To the future, must we now direct our attention.”

The Councillors shift, the atmosphere of the room settling into a fragile tranquility, as though suspended over murky depths by a thin layer of ice. Dooku flexes his hand, and sits back, acquiescing to his old master’s demand, but there’s still something superior in the curl of his mouth. Qui-Gon lifts his chin, and exhales slowly. He will not be cowed.

“The question of the boy remains,” continues Master Sifo-Dyas. “Now that he has awakened to his gift, do we bear the responsibility of initiating him into our ranks? Or are we obliged to hand him over to the Consortium, regardless?”

“We are not  _ handing _ him anywhere, Master Dyas,” purrs Dooku. “We are following the laws of the Republic, and the precepts of our own Code in delivering him to the custody of the Consortium. He is still a child, still obtained through an illegal exchange, and still ignorant to all but the barest touch of the Force. Nothing has changed.”

“Perhaps  _ he _ has changed,” comes a voice from the opposite side of the circle. Jocasta Nu sits proudly upright, her expression stern as she speaks against Dooku’s cynical dismissal. 

Dooku is nonplussed. He stares at her with dark eyes, his mouth falling open before he presses it into an outraged line.

“How do you mean?” ventures Master Poof, his neck wobbling curiously.

“I mean the boy himself,” she clarifies. “Obi-Wan. Perhaps  _ he  _ has changed. Has he not been enrolled in classes with other Initiates, Master Jinn? Perhaps you might tell us how he fares.”

At this, Qui-Gon feels his shoulders relax. He thinks of Obi-Wan bent so studiously over a holo, copying out his name, and slinking home just before the ninth bell, tired but happy. It is easy to speak of Obi-Wan.

“He fares quite well, master,” he begins. “Within a year, he has learned to read, and write, and he attends all the morning classes with his agemates -  _ as permitted by this council _ . He loves the myths of Alsakan, takes an unseemly amount of honey in his tea, sings to himself as he studies, and laughs every single time Master Uvain regales him with the story of her mission to Corellia’s nexus. He’s recently grown two inches, he prefers muja fruit to cheechees, and he has a sharp wit if you manage to catch him off guard. He is clever, and honest, and bright. He has given himself a name.”

“And what would that be?”

“Obi-Wan Kin’Obi.”

“Ah,  _ Ken Obi _ ,” repeats Master Nu, her eyes alight with the wisdom of one who’s learned much from books, and history, and hears more in a name than might be said aloud. “A boy who knows his own heart.”

Qui-Gon bows his head in acknowledgement, the truth of her words falling like a benediction upon his shoulders.

“Yes, master,” he says. “We should be so lucky to count him in our number.”

She smiles, and the room flutters around her, a soft wind of delight swirling round the feet of those assembled. There is a shift. 

But master Rancisis sighs. 

“It is not only a matter of the boy’s suitability, but more so of our moral and ethical obligations,” he says. “The fact remains that we cannot simply snatch up children we deem worthy of our Order -”

“He was  _ saved - _ ”

“Nor can we overstep our position as representatives of The Republic. We are to be neutral mediators. Peacekeepers. Observers. You accepted this mission under the conditions set out by The Republic and the government of Vollinar VI. It was not your place to act in defiance of them. You set a dangerous precedent.”

“The child was a  _ slave _ ,” Qui-Gon says. “A state of being not recognised within The Republic.”

“But you were not  _ in _ The Republic.”

“That does not mean I am exempt from the morality and convictions I am sworn to uphold,” he insists.

“But  _ think _ -” he urges the defiant petitioner. “Consider what might have happened if you had left with less success. Consider what might still happen if you are ever called to return. Perhaps the Vollis would not be so deferential to a man known to partake of their own vices. Perhaps they would be less likely to ally themselves with The Republic, knowing as they do now, the hypocrisy of this Order - for you still  _ took a slave, _ though your intentions may have been honourable.”

“More honourable than consigning a boy to ignorance and oblivion for the sake of politics!”

“And yet how many slaves remain on Vollinar VI?” demands Rancisis. “How many may die there because you jeopardised an alliance with a planet for the sake of a single soul? Don’t forget what politics is - the exchange of compromises for the mutual betterment of all.”

“Is that a fact?” Qui-Gon sneers.

“We must believe so, at least, surely,” soothes Master Poof, ever the mediator.

“If Vollinar VI could be persuaded to join The Republic - which is the aim of these negotiations, as you well know - then their entire slave trade would be abolished, and thousands - perhaps millions - would be freed.”

“That is still a possibility,” he says.

“Perhaps. But perhaps they no longer trust a government that sends ambassadors so easily corrupted by the sin of their own misdeeds. You give them ammunition for doubt. For one boy, you might have condemned millions.”

Qui-Gon hears this. He closes his eyes, and feels it to be true - to be a possibility. But he cannot believe it. 

“Obi-Wan is alive,” he says. “Obi-Wan has been saved.”

“Obi-Wan Kin’Obi is only one boy,” replies Rancisis. “We cannot make exceptions for one boy that would put so many others at risk.”

The atmosphere grows heavy, and cold, and it seems to Qui-Gon as though the sun itself has dimmed, the light spilling long, black bars over the marble floor.

“I understand, my masters,” he says, bowing deep. “But what’s done is done. And Obi-Wan is here. Now. We may help him - now. We may teach him, we may give him a home, and a family. We may yet save him. Do not let my actions be those which condemn him as a consequence. He does not deserve such treatment from you.”

Dooku sighs, and it too is heavier and wearier than Qui-Gon has heard from his master in many years.

“We will do what we must, Qui-Gon,” he says. “The matter is no longer ours to debate. It has been decided by the Small Congress, and the Civil Fosterage Consortium that Obi-Wan Kin’Obi shall be released into the custody of a suitable home at their earliest convenience. There is nothing more to be said on the matter.”

* * *

“Master Jinn!” The boy leaps to his feet, abandoning his holo in favour of receiving Qui-Gon’s cloak at the door, and falling into step behind the raging tempest of a master. “I thought you said you’d be gone until noonmeal. I haven’t -”

He gestures helplessly at the riot of flimsiplast and holobooks scattered across the low table in the common space. Qui-Gon hardly spares them a glance.

“Yes, well, apparently the Council had no intention of granting my matter more than a courtesy hearing this morning,” he growled. “Their decision was made before I arrived.”

Obi-Wan hesitates, standing on the step between approach and retreat, knowing that any matter Master Jinn had brought before the Council with such haste could only have pertained to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Qui-Gon exhales loudly, as though he’s thrown open the source of his disquiet to a summer wind. 

“Do not apologise,” he says, his voice hoarse and sincere. “It is not your fault.”

Obi-Wan twists and frets, not entirely convinced, and still wracked with guilt.

“I’ve had nightmares before,” he continues. “Lots. I didn’t mean to wake you up, Master Jinn, and I didn’t mean for The Council to have to know. I don’t need to talk about them, or anything, and I wouldn’t have this time, except -”

“Except I heard you call for me,” Qui-Gon says. The strict level of his shoulders drops, and he reaches out to place his hands, heavy with assurance, upon Obi-Wan’s arms. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. And nothing to be sorry for. It is I who, once again, must beg your forgiveness.”

“What for, master?”

And Qui-Gon marvels at this earnest, guileless inquiry. Obi-Wan is neither defensive, nor eager to assign blame. Though the victim once more, he acts as the arbiter of his own injury, taking careful measure before issuing judgement. Such a born diplomat - except he hasn’t the cupidity for politics. Nor the ambition.  _ He is not like Xanatos.  _ And this revelation comes to him so peacefully, slipping between his thoughts as gracefully as a sunrise, that he hardly notices the newness of it. Surely, he’d known this before. Surely, he’d only forgotten - briefly - like the way a name escapes the tongue for a moment, before returning from its wayward perambulation about the world without remark upon its absence or recovery. 

He smiles.

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” he says, smoothing down the long locks of hair curling over his fingers like the break of waves. “I have not been fair to you. Do you remember when we sat here last? I asked you to close your eyes, and listen. Do you remember what you felt?”

Obi-Wan’s gaze goes wide, and revelation hits Qui-Gon for the second time. It was  _ then _ . It must have been then,  _ that moment _ , which opened Obi-Wan to the Light. He is sure of it, even as Obi-Wan stammers out a reply.

“Yes, but Master Jinn, Bant says  _ anybody _ can meditate -”

“And so they can, but do you remember Obi-Wan what it feels like?”

A pause - the slightest hitching of uncertainty - and then a nod. For a moment Qui-Gon hesitates, too, knowing that this is another beginning. The trifold path has converged between them, but he could still turn away. The Council has ordered him to. But then he thinks of the little boy who cried himself to sleep in chains, and that ember of Light so carefully banked now stoked and burning bright, and he steps forward, taking Obi-Wan’s hand in his.

“Tell me.”

And Obi-Wan closes his eyes. 

“It feels like...the sun,” he says. “Through the trees - like leaf-light - or when you put your hand to duracrete on a hot day, only all inside of me. It’s like - oh! Do you remember when Master Tahl melted choko into moof-milk when it rained all day last month, and we sat and counted the atmo regulators spark lightning over the city? It’s just like that.”

“Very good, Obi-Wan,” the Jedi says, as he closes his own eyes, and reaches out. “Now - can you feel me?” 

Amusement flares at the base of his skull.

“Of course, Master Jinn,” the boy replies. “That’s easy. You’re always there. Like the wind over grass - you whisper to me.”

“Oh?”

“And Bant feels like the inside of an eggshell, smooth and soft,” Obi-Wan continues, his words coming quicker and with confidence as he warms to his subject. “And Siri is like a repulsor, when it drops and your stomach stays up high, and Bruck is like sticks, and Reeft is like a root, and Garen is like skipping stones, and Master Tahl - I almost forgot, but once, a Badge Man from Belderone brought a giant, tame  _ changori-bun  _ to the court. It was huge, and white, and he let me pet it, and it was like sinking your hand into a cloud, so thick, and so warm, and so soft you could hardly even feel it.”

“And that’s Master Uvain?”

“Don’t you think so?

“I think you are a very astute observer,” he says, and the little flame in his mind leaps and dances towards the sky. “Now, I’m going to ask you to do something else, alright?”

“Alright,” he agrees.

“It is not so difficult a thing to reach out to the bright lights of your friends, is it?”

“Not once I knew how.”

“Good,” Qui-Gon says. “But what if I asked you to touch, let’s say, a tea cup, or one of your holobooks. Do you think you could do that?”

He feels as Obi-Wan opens his eyes, and he opens his own to meet that searching gaze. 

“You want me to touch a holo like it was Bant in my head?” he asks.

“Yes,” replies Qui-Gon. “Can you do that?” Obi-Wan regards Qui-Gon with barely veiled incredulity, and the master laughs - to think this child has bit his tongue to spare Qui-Gon’s own nebulous dignity! “Do not look so skeptical, Obi-Wan,” he says. 

“But Master Jinn,” he protests, “A holo is quite a bit different from a person.”

“Oh?” Qui-Gon asks. “How so?”

“Well, they  _ look _ different, for one thing. A holo isn’t  _ alive _ .”

“And yet, if you close your eyes, how can you tell the difference?” 

He waits, and eventually, with the great agony of polite indulgence, Obi-Wan closes his eyes.

“Now, explain to me the difference between myself, and the holo on the table.”

“You’re speaking,” Obi-Wan replies. So Qui-Gon is silent. Then, after a time of careful thought - “You glow.”

“And the holo does not?”

“I don’t know, Master Jinn,” he says, though now his voice runs with a vein of distress, anxious that he should fail to meet the Jedi’s expectations. “Maybe?”

He cannot leave the boy to flounder in obscurity, and so, with a brief surge of his own determination, he channels the Force through the holo, setting it alight, and illuminating it in the dark. Obi-Wan gasps.

“You see?”

“But that was  _ you! _ ” Obi-Wan protests, drawing back and opening his eyes to the physical world once more.

“There is no difference. Or do you think it is the holo’s will that brings it to my hand?”

And with that, he calls the nearest of Obi-Wan’s books to him, the object streaking across the room to hover serenely above his palm. He has been careful in these past months to restrict his use of the Force to meditation, and sparring but he has not been perfect, and he knows the other members of his Order have had no such cause for discretion. But this is the first time such a demonstration has been performed for Obi-Wan’s benefit, and he steps back startled, and aware of the actinic spark that darts through the air, rending the atmosphere, and leaving the smell of ozone in his nose, much like the saber class had done.

“Reach out, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says, pushing the holo towards him. “Reach out and make it glow. Call it to you.”

“I am not a Jedi,” Obi-Wan whispers, his eyes locked on the book.

“You are strong in the Force,” the master vows. “You need only reach out, and take it.”

So Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and tries.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for pomiar
> 
> I am still [tessiete](https://tessiete.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

* * *

The Force, Obi-Wan discovers, feels much like a young _tooka_ kit.

Yes, it’s warm, and soft, and there’s something soothing about feeling it pressed against your body, the patter of its pulse beating out against your own, but -

It’s also quite _wiggly_.

He sits in The Room of a Thousand Fountains, knees tucked up beneath him, waiting for the afternoon classes to let out so that he may slip back into Master Jinn’s quarters without notice. It’s been his practice, for some weeks now, to spend these afternoon hours in quiet meditation, which Qui-Gon Jinn mistakes for time spent tending to lectures and homework. It is not a lie, exactly, but his evenings have become so dense, and his studies so relentless that this time to himself has become precious. He sits. He thinks. He tries to calm the raging swells of his own presence, tries to find purchase in the currents of the Force. He leans back into its embrace, and lets it carry him away. Only now, he doesn’t disappear. Now, he seeks to find the wind at his back, and guide his own course. Now, he seeks a star to steer by. He is not lost. 

He knows that when the sun falls behind the orchard wall, the classes will be done, and his time will be up. When he goes home, he shall be met with holos and tomes filled with the wisdom of ancient masters, no longer his to peruse at leisure, but carefully supervised by Qui-Gon Jinn. He will ask him questions over latemeal, expecting to be met with considered answers about morality, and ethics, and the various political and traditional practices of ancient civilizations from places Obi-Wan has never been. Then, Siri will call. Or Bant. Sometimes, it is Bruck, alone, but sometimes it is a gaggle of his friends, who, most nights, will collect him for an hour or two of sabre practice, and games of push-feather. After this, he will return to his quarters, and Qui-Gon will pour tea, and they will sit in shared meditation, as the Jedi Master guides his mind through the pathways of the Force, as surely as one might take another’s hand to help them cross a river.

It is nice, he thinks, to have the master’s undivided, unrestrained attention, and he never feels as confident in his ability as he does when Qui-Gon Jinn is at his side. It is much easier to hold the Force close when Master Jinn is near. But there is something in the Master’s presence that has shifted. Something racing beneath the surface of his skin, and sinking deeper which sets Obi-Wan on edge. It feels like Time, and it is catching up to him, coming closer, just over his shoulder, just nipping at his heels. And he must be ready.

The Room of a Thousand Fountains is where he comes to steady himself. But today, he is not alone.

“Peregrine Kin’Obi, must you be,” says the small figure hunched before him. Obi-Wan scrambles to his feet, bowing deeply, for he knows this Jedi by sight.

“Master Yoda,” he says. His eyes stay lowered, even as he straightens, and tucks his hands into his sleeves.

“Know me, do you?” The master sounds amused, but it is difficult to tell his expression beneath so many wrinkles. 

“Yes, sir,” Obi-Wan says. “We have met before. In Chambers, when you - when I was saved. And when I was tested.”

“Many months ago now, that was,” Yoda hums in pleasant agreement. “Much changed are you. Taller, you are. Stronger. Strange, for a master my age to see the young grow old so fast, when look the same, I have, for a century.”

At this, Obi-Wan’s head lifts, and his eyes dart over Yoda’s features in astonishment.

“A century, Master?” he asks. 

“Look I not so old, to you?”

Courtly etiquette has left deep marks upon his manners, and Obi-Wan stumbles, and blushes his way to a denial.

“No, sir,” he claims. “Not old at all. Why, you don’t look a day over -”

“Yes?”

“You don’t look a day over ninety-one,” he says, his natural honesty warring with his compassion.

Master Yoda laughs.

“Ah, a flatterer you are,” he chortles. “On my guard, must I be, if to avoid the trappings of vanity, I am.”

“Forgive me, sir,” Obi-Wan says, bobbing a short bow once again. “But surely a master such as yourself trusts the glory of wisdom to outshine the youthful gildings of conceit.”

“Reading Master Seva, have you been?” Yoda asks. His wide eyes narrow, and his mouth contorts into a rippling line of thought.

“Yes, sir,” concedes Obi-Wan. The Jedi Master looks quite stern, all swaddled in his robes, and bent over his gimer stick, and Obi-Wan considers the possibility that Master Seva is as verboten as sabre practice, and push-feather. But then...it was Master Jinn who took him to the Archives, and Master Nu who gave him the book, and Master Uvain who helped him puzzle through the ancient aphorisms those first few months, so surely it cannot be so terrible a thing to have learned.

Master Yoda must come to a similar conclusion for he taps his stick decisively against the ground, the soft earth absorbing the blow. 

“Heard your name often, I have,” he begins, his tone no longer playful but quite serious. “Many times to the Council, Master Jinn has come, to speak of you he has, and yet, today - recognise you, I did not.”

Obi-Wan does not know if he should apologise for his transformation, or for the insult done to the Jedi Master’s pride, so he says nothing. 

“A failing, this is,” he says, and Obi-Wan feels his spine give out beneath the burden of regret. But Yoda continues. “A failing in myself. Much there is in you, that has changed. And yet, so little have I grown these past months that failed to see it, I have.”

This observation invites neither agreement or dispute, nor is it an apology or an accusation. But Master Yoda is looking so closely at Obi-Wan that he thinks he might see right through him, and see every naughty thing he’s done. And suddenly, his trespasses seem mountainous - too big to be unseen; his sabre lessons, and his push-feather games, the time last week when Bruck urged him to sneak into the commissary for an extra helping of pudding, the stylus he borrowed from Siri and then gave to Garen who lost it, the robe of Qui-Gon’s still hanging over the chair in his room though he’d only meant to keep it for an afternoon, The Aphorisms of Chakora Seva on his bedside table, the extra spoonful of honey he’d put in his tea last night, though he _knew_ there’d be none for Master Uvain’s visit today, and she was also fond of it... So Obi-Wan goes very still in the hopes that perhaps he might continue to be overlooked.

But it is not to be.

“Tea,” Yoda declares, and Obi-Wan snaps to attention, a confession on his lips. But Yoda will not hear it. “Yes,” he says. “To my chambers, must you come, and over tea will you teach me about yourself.”

With that, the little tyrant shakes his stick at Obi-Wan, urging him into motion, and Obi-Wan steps forward to avoid the flailing weapon.

“Now?” he asks. “But Master Yoda, I have -”

“Many classes to attend, hm?” he suggests, shrewdly. “Many studies? Many responsibilities greater than the assistance of a fellow Jedi, have you?”

“No, sir,” Obi-Wan concedes.

“Thought not, did I,” Yoda grins. “For, as Master Seva says, ‘The greatest gift, and the greatest duty of all, education is,’ hm?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Then to your duty, must we see.”

Obedient, and wary, Obi-Wan follows Master Yoda as he trundles down the path, and out of the Room of a Thousand Fountains. 

Though the halls are less populated than they might be, he is not spared the curious looks, and speculative whispers as the little peregrine and the Grand Master of the Jedi Order perambulate along. Master Yoda seems oblivious, smiling, and - if Obi-Wan can trust his senses - _humming_ to himself, nodding at knights and padawans and masters as they pass.

At last, high in a tower, and well away from all but the most senior Temple occupants, Obi-Wan is lead into a tiny chamber. The room is dimly lit, and warm. Humid. It smells of earth, and the must of leaves, and the damp of buried seeds. Master Yoda lets out a sigh of contentment as he settles into the chair by a low, circular table, and waits.

“By the cupboards, will you find the kettle,” he says, and with no further instruction, Obi-Wan bows, and sidles into the galley. 

It is much like the one he shares with Qui-Gon, though everything seems to be scaled down. He does not require a stool to reach the top cupboards, where Master Yoda also keeps his tea. He does not need to stand on tiptoe to set the burner alight, or place the kettle upon it. He does not need to stretch to collect the cups from the bottom shelf. In this, small way, he and Master Yoda are nearly equals, and he feels the apprehension he’d been carrying drop from his shoulders as he sets the tea things upon a tray, and pours the boiled water into the pot.

Thus armed, he rejoins Master Yoda in his sitting room, and lays the tray out before him. For a moment, he meditates lightly - it is the custom of Qui-Gon Jinn to give the water a moment to breathe before the tea is set in it. _So that they do not harm one another_ , he says, winking. Yoda does not meditate, but he watches Obi-Wan carefully.

After a moment, he opens his eyes, and begins.

First, the tea is portioned out, and placed in the pot. The steam rises from the opening at the top, and briefly clouds his vision, first smelling like nothing at all, before taking on the upper, floral notes of the tea. Then, he replaces the lid, and sets out the cups for he, and Master Yoda.

They each are also given a small spoon, and a little jar of honey is set to one side. That done, he takes the tea cloth from beneath the pot, and wets it from the spout. He sweeps out the dust from Master Yoda’s cup, and then his own, then sets the cloth over the pot, and his hand over the cloth, waiting.

At last, the tea ready, he fills Master Yoda’s tea and waits.

The wizened master lifts the cup to his mouth, and takes a sip. “Tasty, this brew is,” he declares. Then Obi-Wan fills his own cup, and drinks in company with the master.

“Well versed in making tea, you are,” the Jedi observes. 

“Yes, sir,” Obi-Wan agrees. 

“But not on Vollinar VI have you learned this, I think?”

“No, sir,” says Obi-Wan. “Master Jinn taught me. We share tea nearly every day.”

“Do you?” Yoda probes. “And what matters over tea do you discuss?”

“All kinds of things,” the peregrine says. “Master Jinn asks me about my day, and he tells me about his. Sometimes, Master Uvain joins us, or Initiate Bant because she is more careful than the others, and likes tea better.”

“Wise, is Master Jinn, to keep the incautious from his table,” says Yoda. 

“Only from tea,” says Obi-Wan. “Master Jinn is glad to have any of my friends for meals, and sometimes I visit the creche to eat with them.”

“Then too indulgent, must Master Jinn be, if only stories and play does he set out for you.”

“No, sir, not at all,” replies Obi-Wan, staunchly. “Master Jinn has been very strict about my classes and studies. If we are to listen to the words of Master Seva, then it can only be said that Master Jinn is a true Jedi for he has spent many hours on my education.”

“And things of what kind, has Master Jinn taught you, hm?” Yoda asks. “Of the Force, does he speak?”

Obi-Wan hides his hesitation in a sip of tea. “Sometimes,” he says.

“Of the Jedi, do you learn? Of the Code?”

“A little, Master Yoda,” the peregrine replies, and Yoda sighs deeply.

The Grand Master sets his cup upon the table, and shuffles to his feet. The dim lights of the room cast a shroud over him, and Obi-Wan squints to see what he may decipher from his posture or his face, but the little figure turns away.

“Many months have you been here,” Yoda says. “And many times has Qui-Gon Jinn come to us for counsel. Strong in the Force, you are, he says. To train you, he desires. To take you as his padawan, he would. But permit this, the Council cannot.”

Obi-Wan puts his own cup back upon the tray. “Oh.”

“Of your time on Vollinar VI, tell me.”

“There isn’t much to say.”

“A serving boy, you were, hm? A slave of the Vollis Court?”

“Yes, Master Yoda.”

“A hard life is that, for one so young.”

“If I may say so, sir, it is not a life at all,” he says. “It is only waiting.”

“For what were you waiting?”

“For it to end.” Though he is turned away, Obi-Wan can see the master’s great ears fall back and lower in anguish. He feels the twist of hurt against his ribs, and reaches out. “Forgive me, master. I did not mean to upset you.”

Yoda cocks his head, then turns to face the young boy before him. “Curious it is, that it is of my pain you speak, when it is you who has been so greatly injured.”

“Master?”

“Come,” says Yoda, waddling back to his seat. “Our tea must we finish. Grow cold, does it, and grow old, do I.”

With a great show of effort, he heaves himself back onto his pallet, and picks up his cup, waiting for Obi-Wan to do the same. After several peaceful moments, wherein Yoda takes his time to study the ceiling, the window, and the weave of his robe, he asks another question of Obi-Wan.

“Tell me,” he says, “If back to Vollinar, as a free being, you were to go now, do what would you there?”

“Sir?” Obi-Wan asks. He has not considered this before.

“Vengeance, would you seek? Recompense?”

Obi-Wan frowns over his tea. “I had not really thought to go back,” he says. 

“Perhaps,” ventures Yoda, “If to return as a _Jedi_ , you were? What then would you seek?”

The liquid swirls a shimmering green, the rough clay of his cup sending strange shadows and eddies through the tea. Obi-Wan examines it as though the clarity of the water may lend the same transparency to his thoughts.

“I might -” he says, “I think I might try to free those left behind.”

“As save you, Master Jinn did?”

“Yes, sir,” he agrees. “Master Jinn saved my life. He saved it when he took me away, and he saved it when he brought me here. Every day he saves it, and I would like to do the same for someone else.”

“And yet, in saving you, many others did Master Jinn endanger,” challenges Yoda. “Without protection, without freedom, without counsel he left them on Vollinar VI. Now, to you he is bound, and many other worlds with many other little boys, without his help are left.”

Obi-Wan bows his head. This is a deep sacrifice, and he knows it well. There were other children he’d seen on Vollinar VI, younglings his own age whose names he never knew, but who might have been called Siri, or Bruck, or Bant as easily as they were called Obi-Wan. And sometimes, at night, he dreams that it is his friends who are left behind when Qui-Gon takes him away. He has thought about it. He has meditated on it. 

“Perhaps, sir,” he acknowledges. “But perhaps, too, it was the will of the Force that he found me.”

“Much like Qui-Gon, you sound,” laments Yoda. “So certain of your own perception, are you.”

“No, Master Yoda, not at all,” he says. “I don’t believe that I was the only one deserving of rescue, and I don’t think that I should have come before everyone else. Only I do think...I do think that sometimes, we do what we can, when we can because the future is never certain. Master Jinn always says to live in the moment - that the moment is _everything_ \- and in that moment, he saw a way to do good, and he did it.”

“And if, like Master Jinn, a Jedi Master _you_ were, done what, would you have?”

His brow furrows, and he thinks of Master Qui-Gon who only frees slaves one at a time, and of the ancient Knights who freed whole worlds by their blade. But he is neither Master Jinn, nor a Knight, and so he thinks his solution must be something else, entirely.

“I think I would have tried to reason with them,” he says. “And if they would not see my way, then I might - perhaps I could give them something in return. As a payment, of sorts. Or an exchange.”

“Negotiate, would you? With slavers?”

“I don’t know, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan confesses. “I have not learned enough, yet. But I think that it would be wrong of me to hold on to my own hurt because it would distract me from any solution. I think it is important to know our pain, from where it comes, how to heal it, and how to let it go, but to do that, we must seek the Light. We must do good, we must _desire_ good, and so we have to speak and act in good ways. We must live our lives in service to the Light, and honour it, and work at it, and think about it in everything we do, even if we miss sometimes. We have to be gentle. We have to be forgiving. We must always come back to the Light.”

“Hm,” says Yoda. “Wisdom in your own ignorance, there is. In the Council’s judgement, also, there is wisdom. See that, too, do you?”

“I trust your judgement,” Obi-Wan says.

“But understand it, you must,” Yoda insists, setting his empty cup upon the tray. Obi-Wan’s cup, too, is emptied and the ceremony is complete. “Or acceptance you will never find.”

Obi-Wan thinks he shall never accept this abandonment, no matter how often it is said to him, and he feels a bitter defiance rising in him. But Master Yoda is only one Jedi, and he has been kind to Obi-Wan. He does not deserve his outrage, and perhaps there is something right in what he says, something that Obi-Wan must find for himself. So he bites the sharpest rebukes from the tip of his tongue, and only says, “Thank you, Master Yoda,” and sees himself out the door.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my butt. So I'm posting it as punishment. Hopefully it learns its lesson.
> 
> I also bumped up the chapter count because, again, this chapter kicked my butt. 
> 
> For timeline's sake, Obi-Wan is now about 11 by the end of this chapter. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy another installment of Space Hogwarts! Love you all!! OH! Also want to say, I've read and cherished every single comment, and I will do my best at replying but honestly, I get anxious and overwhelmed, but don't think I don't appreciate every single one. I'm just a simple man, tryna make my way in the world!

* * *

“That’s not true,” she says, her hands fisted upon her hips. “They just _can’t_ send you away.”

“I am not a Jedi,” Obi-Wan replies, the wooden practice staff sitting heavy in his lap. 

They retired from sword form and combat etiquette for the evening, at the behest of Garen, who, midway through a bout, complained that he missed his hit on Bruck because he was too busy thinking about the native flowers of Belladonia’s fourteenth moon.

“There’s just so many of them,” he’d bemoaned. “And Master Jath’ki expects us to know exactly which ones will buy us noodles, and which ones will get us killed for asking by Taungsday!”

At first, Bruck had scoffed, but then Reeft, too, expressed his concern that his rudimentary astrov problems were taking longer than he thought. Bant, taking his example, mentioned her Basic Twi’lek could use a refresher, and eventually even Siri had admitted her desire to get started on their paper for Docent Ta. Overruled, Bruck relented in his mockery of Garen, and they’d all fallen into groups, scattered about the room, helping each other with their various projects. At some point, Reeft and Garen had gone down to raid the commissary, and as a result, Obi-Wan was comfortable enough, nibbling on some sour _Asair ribbon_ , to confide in Siri as they pored over her holotext together.

She’d listened until her upset outran her patience, which was, to Obi-Wan’s dismay, not very long. However, he couldn’t begrudge the queer sort of warmth that bloomed in his chest and his stomach as she'd launched into her indignant tirade.

“They _can’t_ send you away,” she says again, as he sits in contemplation of her defense. “You’re part of our clan.”

“Not really,” he replies, hiding his own upset in a nonchalant perusal of the text, and the sour twist of candy inside his cheek. “It says right here that ‘the morality of the unit is dictated by the mores of the culture,’ but then didn’t Docent Ta say that true morality is a universal standard of behaviour?”

“That’s stupid,” Siri says, underlining the sentence with her stylus. “Nobody just gets _sent away_.”

“Who’s getting sent away?” demands Garen from where he’s sprawled opposite Bant, as she patiently elaborates on the various flora of Belladonia with little success.

“No one,” replies Siri.

“Me,” says Obi-Wan.

“What’d you do?” wonders Reeft. Concern folds his brow to match the crumpled flimsi in front of him.

“ _Nothing_ ,” insists Siri. “And anyway, they don’t send people away.”

Then Bruck’s voice pops up, cool and wise, from the other end of the room.

“Yes, they do,” he says. He stands, and waits, letting his speculative gaze fall on each member of his audience until they are rapt, waiting for him to elaborate, reveling in the sea of their anticipation. “Initiates,” he says. “They send away the initiates who aren’t good enough to get a master.”

“No, they _don’t_ -” 

“They do,” he says, his tone is steady with conviction. “That’s what the AgriCorps are for. And the ExplorCorps, and the MedCorps, and the EduCorps, too. That’s where they send the failures who don’t get picked.”

At this, Siri stands, her outrage growing beyond the confines of seated repose.

“That’s not true, Bruck,” she cries. 

“Yes, it _is_! I heard it from one of the Padawans in the salles.”

“Who?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Because you’re lying,” Siri says, her voice rising to crash impotently against Bruck’s relative calm. “Those are the Service Corps. Those are for initiates who don’t _want_ to be a knight.”

“Who don’t get picked,” he shrugs, throwing a knowing glance at Obi-Wan. “Like I said.”

Bant, her silver eyes wide in concern and confusion sits silently on the ground, her holotab still flicking idly through a variety of flowers. Garen struggles to his knees to interject.

“I don’t know, Bruck,” he says. “You’re saying that Docent Vinn is only our teacher because he couldn’t make it as a knight?”

“Well, no one would _choose_ to be a docent,” says Bruck. “No one _wants_ to be a farmer.”

“But isn’t he still a Jedi,” questions Reeft. “I mean, technically?”

“He isn’t a _knight,_ ” Bruck says. “And that’s my point.”

“No,” argues Siri, “ _You_ said they sent initiates away, and they don’t. They just don’t.”

“Can you just apologise, and make it better?” queries Bant, from the floor.

“No,” Siri says, throwing down her stylus in her vehemence. “Because he didn’t _do_ anything, and he’s not getting sent away. Initiates are _not_ sent away.”

Obi-Wan sighs, and flicks off the holotext where it lies completely forgotten by everyone except him. The air is thick with upset, and he feels badly for poor Bant, who sits as neglected as Siri’s schoolwork, so he stands to moderate the dispute.

“I’m not an initiate,” he says calmly. Clearly. He lets the truth of the words settle over the shoulders of his friends, hoping that the serenity he projects is made of sterner stuff than the anxiety churning in his gut. “And I’m not getting sent to the Service Corps. I’m getting sent home.”

This is the wrong thing to say, and instead of soothing his friends' ruffled thoughts, it serves to launch all of them, simultaneously, into violent expressions of dismay

“Back to Vollinar?” cries Bant. “They wouldn’t!”

“That’s completely unfair!” says Reeft.

“The Council wouldn’t allow it,” declares Garen. “Have you told them? Have you told Master Yoda?”

“Don’t they care what you want at all?” demands Siri, now turning back to face Obi-Wan directly. “Don’t they know the Temple _is_ your home?”

Bruck says nothing, retreating to a low desk to sit, crossing his legs at the angle and frowning deeply. Obi-Wan wonders if perhaps he regrets arguing so vehemently his point, but Siri is standing in front of him, her brow crinkled and her clear eyes both challenging and imploring him to speak.

He doesn’t say anything. She waits until she can wait no longer.

“You _do_ want to stay here, don’t you?”

He pauses, but only because his heart is so full it won’t fit in his mouth. He chokes on it, and a small fragment is loosed when he says, “I do. Of course, I do.”

“Then why won’t you fight for it?” she asks. Her eyes brim with tears as her own ire condenses into anguish.

Obi-Wan is at a loss. He cannot explain to her how hard he has tried, how he still tries, every day, to be exactly what the Council wants. To be what Qui-Gon Jinn wants. She doesn’t know - she can’t know - how much he has struggled, and how much he has failed, and how much he has given to be where he is right now. And still...it is not enough. 

But Bruck, who must be equally ignorant to Siri, isn’t concerned with Obi-Wan’s efforts at all. He doesn’t care about wins and losses - they are all in the past - and he steps forward to sweep Siri’s judgement, and these sorrows aside. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he declares. “It doesn’t matter what Obi-Wan’s done, or hasn’t done. It doesn’t matter what he wants, or what we want, or even what Master Jinn wants. The Council has made up their mind.”

“So you’re just saying we should give up?”

He shoots Siri a withering look. “No,” he says. “I’m saying that we’ve got to make them change it. And I’ve got a plan.”

What he suggests is neither easy, nor wise, but it is earnest, and honest, and it fills Obi-Wan with hope. For once, for the first time maybe, he feels like he has control of his life, and he can choose his path.

* * *

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join me, Obi-Wan?” asks Master Jinn. He stands by the door, cloak in hand, and hair roughly swept into a low bun, awaiting Obi-Wan’s reply. The question has been posed many times in the past fortnight, with increasing frequency and desire, yet Obi-Wan has remained staunch in his refusal.

“No, thank you, Master,” he replies, lounging idly on the sofabed, a halo of constellations circling lazily overhead. He thumbs the holocam in his hand, and the image shifts, a more distant galaxy coming into view.

“Many of your friends will be participating,” the master urges. “Wouldn’t you like to see Siri Tachi spar? I’m told she’s a great talent.”

“She’s alright,” Obi-Wan agrees, his focus never leaving the projection of stars above him.

“Hm,” Qui-Gon nods, but still lingers, searching for some other temptation to put forth. “Have you seen many initiate duels?”

At this, Obi-Wan sits up, his gaze finding Qui-Gon’s, the lights flickering out of existence. 

“Oh, Master Jinn, I know Master Ree said I wasn’t allowed to attend classes with Dragon Clan anymore, but I -”

“I know, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon assures him. “I was likewise made aware of the situation. I only meant to suggest that perhaps the Tournament might be an opportunity to see the results of your friends’ hard work, and acknowledge their dedication.”

Obi-Wan sighs. His lips press together, and his eyes find the tips of his fingers, twisting in the cloth of his tabards, swimming in and out of view. Qui-Gon reads sorrow in his silence, and regrets his words - not for what he’s said, but for how thoughtlessly he gave them.

“Never mind,” he murmurs. “I understand. I won’t ask it of you. Remember there is food in the cooler for midmeal. I shall be back before dark.”

He dons his cloak, and turns leaving Obi-Wan mired in a vague sensation of guilt and unease, but he thrusts them aside, and is up and moving before Qui-Gon has fully disappeared from view.

He darts into his room, and to the closet, throwing aside the few robes and tabards hanging there. At the back, disguised by industrious folding, and the drape of a heavy outer cloak, he retrieves pure Initiate whites. Unlike his own clothes, these are made of fine linen, and _kirimen_ silk. Pure white, lightweight, and three layers deeper than the tunics he wears for coarsework, Obi-Wan has managed to keep these hidden for weeks, grateful to Garen for supplying them, despite knowing it would cost him his own chance on the mat. 

With careful fingers, Obi-Wan strips himself of his own clothing, and puts on the whites. They are soft against his skin, flexible, rippling like water over the contours of his body, so light he is self-conscious, and yet still warm, and comfortable enough to spend forever in. The mirror beside the fresher greets him, and he cannot help but stare. 

He looks like a Jedi.

But time is pressing, and he is too shy to spend it all in foolish admiration of himself. He throws the heavy outer cloak over his shoulders, draws the hood up to cover his face, and flies out the door in Qui-Gon’s wake.

By the time he reaches the salles, the crowds are already assembled. On the lower levels, junior padawans help initiates warm up on the mats. Senior padawans, far too serious, and preoccupied to be here, linger with friends in alcoves, trading stories and gossip from mid-rim worlds. 

The spectator’s narthex, at the far end, is the only section with seating on this level, though it is farthest from the action of the bouts. There, the knights mingle, happy to indulge in a day not spent in difficult negotiation, space travel, or - on the rare, but thrilling occasion - armed combat.

But it is the masters who grip the imaginations and the ambitions of the initiates. They stand elevated, raised above the sparring mats in the enclosed observation deck of the auditorium. The ray shields hum, as excited as those below, keeping the masters separate from both chatter, and wayward projectiles as they discuss the futures of various duelists below. 

However, this segregation is not compulsory, and more than a few transgress. Obi-Wan sees a fellow initiate from a different clan having his saber grip adjusted by Padawan Vos. A master sits squashed between two knights on a bench, both vying for her attention amiably - old apprentices, he thinks. Bolder senior padawans approach knights for advice, and timid junior padawans visit with initiates they know to offer their encouragement, and their assurance that _this time_ _they will be picked._

Obi-Wan is separate from all this excitement, and yet it is this distinction which allows him to sneak into the dressing rooms unnoticed by any but those who are looking for him.

“Where have you been?” Siri hisses, dragging him into an alcove deep in the recesses of the room, and well hidden from the doorway. They are further obscured by the sentinel forms of Garen, and Bruck. Bant, who had been, and remains nervous about the whole thing, has been stationed further along the hall as lookout, should any senior Jedi unexpectedly discover their hideout. 

“I had to wait for Master Qui-Gon to leave,” he explains. “I feel badly. He really wanted me to attend with him, today.”

Siri tuts, tugging at his cloak and peeling it back to reveal the shining whites beneath. Her sturdy hands yank and pull at him, bullying his tunics into alignment.

“You _will_ be attending today,” she says. “That’s the whole point.”

The sound of footsteps approaching has Siri pulling the cloak tightly again, and stepping in front of Obi-Wan, but it is only Reeft. 

“Well?” Siri demands, chasing away that momentary terror of discovery.

“It’s done,” Reeft says. He smiles, and immediately Obi-Wan feels some of the tension unwind from his chest. “I just exempted Garen’s ident info from all random bouts, so that he won’t be called to the mat unexpectedly - or rather, _Obi-Wan_ won’t be.”

“You’ll be fighting Bruck in the third round, before eliminations,” Siri explains. “That way, the backrooms will be cleared of any latecomers, but won’t be filled up yet by anybody who loses early. You’ll wait back here, with Garen, and then, when they call his name, you’re going to come out, _in the cloak_ , right? Because -”

“Because otherwise, they may recognise me in time to prevent the match. I know.”

“No need to be snippy about it,” she sniffs. “Anyway, once the match starts, just remember it’s all you.”

“It’s all you,” Reeft agrees. “But we’re all behind you.”

“Right?” Siri asks. She grips Obi-Wan by the shoulders, and stares at him until he concedes to her will with a shallow, and uncertain nod. Her answering nod is firm, and she speaks for him. “Right.”

Reeft offers him another smile, sharing his every confidence. “I’ve got to go,” he says. “I’m up first for third year initiates, but good luck.”

“Good luck,” Obi-Wan replies. He swallows but his tongue has grown thick in the humidity of the changing rooms.

Alone again, Siri has one last gift to bestow. From the folds of her own radiant tunics, tucked between the cinch of her belt and skin, she removes a narrow, silver hilt. It’s simple, and elegant, though scored with many years of use.

“You’ll need a blade,” she explains, handing it over.

Obi-Wan accepts it with solemn reverence. “A lightsaber.”

“Just a practice one,” Siri says. “I snuck it out earlier today, so no one will notice it's missing until after the Tournament. They’ll think some other initiate has it, which isn’t really a lie.”

The hilt seems to vibrate in his hand, tingling warmth spreading across his palm as though he holds an ember of light, or the heart of a star. A voice, strange, and unintelligible, speaking no words, but speaking to him all the same, seems to murmur in his veins, and when he thumbs the switch -

\- A ray of actinic light leaps to strike through the air, banishing darkness, and leaving the smell of burning rain in its wake.

“Looks good on you,” Siri says.

“Thank you.”

Siri nods, then reaches out to thumb the switch off. “Now, remember,” she says, “You’re still weak on your left, especially when you get tired. But Bruck is overconfident. He always goes for the most difficult strike because he thinks being impressive is better than being effective. Don’t fall for it. And don’t let him scare you. And don’t ignore your feelings if they’re telling you one thing but you’re thinking another. Don’t let him win just because he’s your friend, okay? Trust in the Force.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” She sighs, tucking her hair back, as voice calls her name from the front. “That’s me. I’d better go before they come looking. See you out there, Obi.”

“Good luck,” he says.

She smiles, and spins away. “We’re Jedi, Obi-Wan Kin’Obi. There’s no such thing as luck.”

* * *

Garen, evidently, shares none of Bant’s anxiety, nor Siri’s concern, and sits happily chattering away as bout after bout is played out on the mats.

“And _then_ I thought that maybe it was the overdrive which had somehow gotten crossed with the autopilot in the field patch we’d done - you know, when the airlock had depressed, and the main ports had been ripped out? - but even if I eliminated that, I still had to account for the angle of reentry manually. I told Master Le-Var that I could just wing it, and I’ve never seen a Zeltron go _so_ red, it was _so_ funny -”

“Wait, you really just manually brought a damaged ship through reentry?”

“No, no,” Garen assures him, with a dismissive wave. “This was a simulation, but Master Le-Var went red all the same.”

“Oh.”

Garen taps a beat out against his knee.

“You nervous?”

“A little.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Right,” agrees Obi-Wan. “Maybe they’ll send me away.”

For a minute, Garen waits, his breath caught. Obi-Wan’s face is stoic, and yet, there’s a brief twitch in the corner of his mouth that gives the game away. Garen laughs, falling into hysterical giggles.

“Maybe,” he agrees, gasping for breath. “Or maybe, they’ll see you’re _so_ dangerous, they _have_ to keep you. They wouldn’t want you to end up like Xanatos, again.”

At once, all Obi-Wan’s mirth plummets to the floor, shattering silently at his feet. He turns to face Garen more fully, striving to keep the little composure he has, pulling the cloak more closely about himself.

That name. _Xanatos_ . The ghost of a boy he’s never met, and yet whose presence haunts him. Xanatos fills the rooms of Qui-Gon’s quarters, staining the walls like shapes pressed into them by time, the surrounding colour bleached so that only the shadow of their form remains. He cannot be the only one to feel him, to see him there. He _knows_ Qui-Gon must. He knows Qui-Gon turns away, and keeps his eyes closed in the dark. But no one will tell him anything.

“End up like Xanatos how?” he asks.

But Garen doesn’t know the ghost remains. He doesn’t know the weight of memory and regret that clings to Qui-Gon’s heels, or radiates from all his sharpest angles, from his knees and elbows, and the proud jut of his chin. So Garen answers.

“He used to be Master Jinn’s padawan,” he says, blithely. “He used to be in Dragon Clan before that. I was only in the creche, but everyone always talked about him, even when I first became an initiate. He was the best swordsman, and the best pilot, and the best student - all the docents loved him. Master Jinn loved him. But then -”

“What?”

Garen leans close. “Well, we’re not _supposed_ to talk about it because nobody really knows, but what I heard was that he went _home_ . To his _parents._ ”

“His birth parents?”

“Yeah,” Garen confirms, nodding solemnly. “And then he went Dark.”

Obi-Wan sits, his head a disordered mass of disjointed thoughts, and poorly reasoned conclusions. No matter which way he thinks of it, none of it makes sense. Why would Xanatos go home? Why did Qui-Gon send him? What does it mean to be Dark? Obi-Wan has seen the worst of humankind, and yet the Force has always been a comfort. A beacon. Yet Garen speaks of the Dark as if it is a destination, a place which Xanatos chose to be. 

These disturbing thoughts are cut short by the sounding of a bell, and the announcement of the next match. Obi-Wan feels Garen’s elbow digging into his ribs, excitement ringing in his voice.

“That’s you, that’s you!” he says, shoving at Obi-Wan until he stands. His saber lies flat against his hip. His tunics rustle quietly over his skin. He fastens the cloak, and pulls the hood up over his head, letting the brim of it hang low across his brow.

“Go on, Obi-Wan!” cheers Garen. “Show them how it’s done!”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all you lovely souls. I am so grateful for all the love and comments that you have shown this fic. I will reply - I WILL - I'm just...a little overwhelmed right now, but like, it'll happen. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy as we come to the final lengths in this...way too long story.
> 
> Much love!
> 
> T

* * *

Beneath the cloak, he is shrouded in darkness, like before. Absent. Invisible. Anybody, and no one. There is safety in that, but he can live in darkness no more.

And so, as with Qui-Gon, and with Bant, as with every class, and every lesson, every holobook, every cup of tea, every taste of honey, every breath of laughter, every touch of Light, Obi-Wan drops the cloak, and reveals himself to the world.

It is very bright, and he squints, blinking repeatedly to clear his vision. There is hesitation. A confused hush falls over the room. He is not so infamous as to be instantly recognisable but there are many who know him for what he is...and what he is not. He is not Garen Muln.

With their voices lowered to curious murmurs, Obi-Wan can hear the rush of blood through his veins, beating out an ominous rhythm of warning in his ears. Across the room, he hears laughter - an initiate from another clan gossips with her friend, her eyes meeting his and darting away in scandalised delight. Knights shuffle forth from the narthex, rising from their seats to get a better look, while padawans set aside their own restless antics to see where this new drama lies. Above, the masters look down on those below.

“Obi!” Bruck calls. His voice is stern, and clear. It cuts through the humid swathe of speculation, and compels Obi-Wan to meet him at the centre of the mat. “Draw,” he says.

His mouth is dry, and his palms are slick with sweat as he fumbles for the hilt of his lightsaber, his finger pausing over the ignition switch of the blade. Bruck smirks, meeting him toe-to-toe as opponents. 

“Don’t think,” he mutters, certain in his arrogance. “And don’t give _them_ any time to think. Quick, now, before they stop us.”

Bruck steps back. He sweeps his sword arm wide, igniting his blade at the aphelion of its orbit, then bends in a low bow.

Obi-Wan bows back. He lights his blade. It sings to him, and he is at peace. And then -

The bout begins.

Bruck is fast. Bruck is nimble. Bruck doesn’t hesitate. Obi-Wan knows this about him. He has duelled him many times, but he has never come out the winner. _This_ time will be different. He swears it to himself.

Bruck smirks, tossing the white-blond fringe of his hair from his eyes, and for a second Obi-Wan thinks his avowal has been heard. Then Bruck darts near, reaching to strike at the centre of his chest. Obi-Wan parries it, stepping back, and stumbling as he trips over his feet.

“Come on, Obi!” Bruck taunts. “Better than that!”

He passes the hilt from his right to his left, wiping his palm dry on the soft cloth of his tunics, then passes it back again. The blade hums. He feels it - he _feels_ it - and yet it is much different than the staff he’s used to.

There is no weight to the blade. It flies high, and wide every time he tries to advance, and in his retreat, he nearly falls more than once as he flinches back from a blow he doesn’t trust his near incorporeal weapon to defend.

Bruck strikes again and again, and Obi-Wan stumbles around and around the circle. Bruck is laughing. He thinks he hears spectators laughing, too. Their blades meet on his left, his right, his left again. He sits heavy in his heels, and Bruck is no longer aiming for mass, but for the length of his sword. He is toying with him, and Obi-Wan is still tiring.

Then, Bruck pulls back, telegraphing the motion of his next attack, and Obi-Wan can read it. He ducks as Bruck swings. The saber crackles overhead, and he swipes at Bruck’s ankles hoping to score a hit.

But Bruck is fast, and he leaps high, tumbling through the air to land on the far side of the ring, even as Obi-Wan rolls to his feet, standing opposite. Bruck’s grin has turned feral, and hungry, and Obi-Wan shifts to hold his blade with both hands.

The next flurry of blows is fast - too fast for Obi-Wan to anticipate - and he feels like he is staggering through a dance, missing steps he should know without thought but has forgotten. Like a word, just beyond tasting, he reaches and reaches and falls short.

“A hit!” cries Bruck.

Obi-Wan feels a burn across the width of his bicep, dulled by the many layers of tunics, but still stinging with the pangs of embarrassment.

“Indefinite,” argues Obi-Wan. 

The lights stay up, and no one moves, and so the match resumes.

_On your toes_ , he thinks, and it is Siri’s impatient voice he hears. _Don’t think_ , says Bruck. _It’s like dancing, it’s like singing. Be patient, be calm. Be free._ They’re all there, in his head, and he tries to be all those things, but he can hardly hear them over the hum of his lightsaber. The lights are so bright, and there is salt dripping into his eyes. 

They pace around the mat, young akk wolves sizing each other up, and from the chorus of voices in his mind, one rises up to remind him: _Bruck thinks being impressive is better than being effective._ And all the others fall into place.

He waits. He bends his knees, keeping his centre of gravity low. He doesn’t stretch for an impossible hit, but he draws Bruck in, and in, and in.

Bruck’s grin becomes a frown, and Obi-Wan knows he is getting frustrated, but still, he waits.

Then, as he steps back from Bruck’s next feint, his opponent leaps high again, just as before, tucking and rolling to get behind Obi-Wan. But Obi-Wan is waiting, and as he flies overhead he swings his blade to slice across his left ankle.

Bruck lands hard. His ankle buckles beneath him, and he lets out a pained curse. He drops his lightsaber to clutch at his foot, pressing it, and rubbing out the hurt.

“A - a hit!” Obi-Wan says. “That was a hit. Bruck -”

“No,” the boy growls. He staggers to his feet, willing the limp away and pushing through his pain. “Indefinite.”

He grabs his blade, and slams the switch so that the light soars up, bright and blue, in the same instant he steps into his next attack.

Obi-Wan recovers just in time to block the first blow. Without thinking, he blocks the next. All he can hear is the song of their blades as they meet and spark and hiss at each other. Bruck’s face, terrible and grimacing, is illuminated in their glow, but for the first time, Obi-Wan doesn’t fear his advance. 

He steps when he must. He swings when he must. He holds up the light in defense when he must. It is nothing of his own devising, he is only doing as the Force suggests, and it flows like water, himself merely the vessel which gives it temporary shape. Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and there is nothing but him, the crystal, and the Force. He hardly notices when his blade connects with Bruck’s flesh for a second time, catching him just above the wrist. It is only Bruck’s cry of pain that jolts him from his trance, and he steps back to call the match.

“Definite,” he says, his voice as certain as his blade. “Solah, Bruck.”

“Indefinite,” Bruck argues. He grabs his blade with his weak hand, and thumbs it on.

“You can’t fight with one hand! Don’t be silly.”

“Watch me!”

With a tidy flick of his wrist, Obi-Wan disarms Bruck. The boy falls to his knees, reaching for a hilt that has rolled out of reach.

“Solah,” he says again, the tip of his blade level with Bruck’s chest.

Bruck stares at him, eyes wide and panting, and Obi-Wan turns, extinguishing his blade, and returning it to his belt.

Across the room, Siri stands, her hands clasped together in delight. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. Around the room, scattered applause turns into an enthusiastic ovation, and he grins. He’s done it. He’s shown them. He’s proved himself. He can be a Jedi. He _is_ a Jedi.

He tilts his head to look at the masters above, searching amongst the crowd for one figure in particular, standing tall and distinct amongst his peers.

But Qui-Gon Jinn is not smiling. Though the masters around him are pointing, and talking in wildly animated gestures, intrigued by the novelty of it all, Qui-Gon Jinn is frowning. His brow is drawn deep, his displeasure falling heavily over his eyes which are dark, and fathomless. He stares at Obi-Wan, his posture rigid, preternaturally still, and Obi-Wan feels all the joy rush out of him, a chill, autumn wind coursing through his blood from the base of his skull where their bond lives. 

He doesn’t even see the next hit when it comes, but in an instant, Bruck is behind him, kicking out his knees, forcing him to the ground. And so, he falls. His hilt is loosed as his head impacts the floor, the blaze of its light leaping forth in Bruck’s hand to slap across his backside. His face burns with shame.

“ _That’s_ definite,” Bruck crows. Then, so that only Obi-Wan can hear, he says, “Solah, _Peregrine._ ”

He circles Obi-Wan like a Karkarodon, and Obi-Wan feels himself eaten alive with humiliation. He curls in on himself, bringing his hands beneath him to twist at the warmth of his belly, seeking comfort. The coarse weave of the mat burns his cheek, and he turns his head to look away from Bruck, and his victorious stride. Siri’s eyes catch his from across the room. She is speaking to him, but he is too far away to hear what she says. Her mouth moves anyway.

_Get up. Get up. Get up._

His eyes close to this appeal, and he rolls onto his back, breathing heavily. Above, the transparisteel windows arc high, and daylight pours in stained blue by the heavy glass. The whispers have grown to murmurings now, open speculation, and outright demands for his removal from the field.

The balcony of masters looms over him, and they regard him like some strange specimen to be studied and dissected, parted only by the flickering of a cold, impersonal shield, but he doesn’t care. He seeks only the gaze of Master Jinn, and finding it, he reaches out by turning within. He grasps that tether between them, desperate to wring from it some warmth, some reminder of spring. But it is only curdled, and wet with sorrow, and in the gallery above, Qui-Gon Jinn turns away, his shadow heavy behind him.

He has tried, Obi-Wan thinks. He has _won_. 

And somehow, despite it all, he still has lost.

“Solah.”

* * *

He sits in the dressing room fresher until the water runs cold, the sky goes dark, and all the other initiates leave. There is no one waiting outside for him, though he’s sure his censure is much deserved. And he’d welcome it - he _would_ \- for any acknowledgement would be better than this obscurity to which he’s been consigned since he dragged himself from the mats, and away from Bruck’s spiteful victory celebrations.

Bant came by, begging him to see her, but he would not be moved. She said that Garen and Reeft were being questioned by Master Ree, and Master Nu for their part in slicing the system, and aiding in the deception. Siri she hadn’t seen, but she told him she could hear her shouting at Bruck from outside the salles after the bout. Even the senior padawans had been too intimidated to intervene, and it wasn’t until Master Windu had entered the fray that her voice had given out, and fallen silent. But even Bant left eventually. And no one else came.

He shivers in the dark, his hair still wet, still naked since he’d peeled his soaked tunics off once they’d grown heavy under the spray. Water swirls, running circuits round his feet, coursing up and over his toes before disappearing down the drain. Moonlight reflects dimly off the white ceramplast tiles and his skin, until he is pale enough as to be translucent. He sits, and thinks, and turns circles over and over again where he went wrong, where he should have turned back, and where he must have been left behind. If he thinks hard enough then maybe his salvation will come to him like an epiphany. But even after hours of desperate contemplation his thoughts remain as dim and as murky as his future.

No one else has come for him.

He sniffs, and wipes his nose though only water is swept away, the salt of his tears long erased by the length of his immersion. He is thirsty, and tired, and has worn his sorrow out. With shaking limbs, he stands and pulls his clothes back over his aching body. Though he’d laid them out hours ago, the clothes remain damp and stick to his skin as he tries to roll them over his hands and feet. It is fitting, he thinks, and some part of him relishes how wretched damp tunics make him feel, cool, and cloying, and rough against him. Enamoured by his own anguish, he turns off the spout, and exits the fresher.

The changing room is quiet, all the closets empty and hollow. A stray canteen lies beneath a bench, a commlink blinks forlornly on a distant shelf, and Obi-Wan can hear no movement outside. The Temple is asleep. It must be very late indeed.

He breathes deeply, bracing himself to begin the journey back to Master Jinn’s quarters. There is nowhere else for him to go, and so the best he can hope for is to arrive anonymously. He wraps himself in shadow, just as he used to, the suffocating black of it almost comforting, and as he disappears from the world, and very nearly from himself, he hears something beyond the beat of his heart, and the rush of his breath.

A step.

There is someone in the room with him.

This realisation sparks, splitting the air like lightning, and a lightsaber ignites to match it. Obi-Wan gasps, and staggers back until his back collides with the wall and he can retreat no more.

From the dark a figure appears and takes form. It is a tall man - taller, even, than Master Jinn - and he stands with the regal bearing of a courtier. Obi-Wan has served many of them, and he can see the same superiority in this man as he saw in them. He flinches under the arrogant gaze of black eyes, flickering like a beetle in the glow of blue light.

“So you’re Qui-Gon Jinn’s boy.” The voice is low, reverberating in Obi-Wan’s chest like the subaural growl of a wild strill. “I must say, I was disappointed by your showing on the mats this afternoon. You have been praised so highly I was certain there must be some mistake, yet here you are.”

Obi-Wan says nothing. The master’s blade glitters like furious starlight, its deep voice warning against any attempt at escape. It is nothing like the practice blade clipped at his waist, though Obi-Wan’s hand strays there, seeking its gentle susurrations.

“Well?” demands the master. “Speak, boy! What have you to say for yourself?”

Obi-Wan is torn away from the mesmerising flare of the blade to meet the Jedi’s gaze.

“I - I -” he stammers, helplessly before arriving at a miserable apology. “I am sorry to disappoint you,” he says. “I only meant for Master Jinn to see me, so that the Council might change their minds.”

There is a silence so long that Obi-Wan’s vision whites out in the haze of the lightsaber’s blade. Then, the master speaks again. There is nothing to be read in the cadence of his voice, which rises and falls like a ship on the sea of Naboo, undisturbed by the undulations of tides, or the depths of oblivion below.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

“I am Master Dooku,” he says. “I sit on the Council. We have met before.”

“Oh,” says Obi-Wan, and he does recall a stern man with eyes too cold to meet before, even in daylight. “The room was brighter then.”

“Hm,” says Master Dooku. Then he lifts his blade in a formal salute, and says, “Draw your saber, Peregrine Kin’Obi, and let us see how much you know.”

And perhaps it is because he cannot see his foe to be properly afraid, or perhaps he has become entranced by the glow of light, or perhaps because he is simply too exhausted to protest or resist, but whatever the reason, Obi-Wan draws the hilt from his belt and ignites his sabre. The light of his stunted blade flickers weak and dim beside the glory of the true sabre, but it will suffice.

He salutes Dooku in kind, and waits for the master to strike.

The first few blows are firm, but easy enough to deflect, falling into the standard patterns of dual katas he and Bant prefer to practice when opposite each other. The master picks up speed, and Obi-Wan adjusts accordingly. Then, just when he feels confident of the next stroke, Master Dooku changes his aim, and catches him across the shoulder, just where Bruck had hit him earlier.

Obi-Wan hisses, and his tunics steam as they’re pressed over his old wound, the fever of its outrage reawakened and stinging strangely, like a sunburn in the evening. But it is only a glancing blow. Dooku has refrained from an actual strike, coming close enough to chasten only. He drops his guard, and Dooku frowns.

“I see,” he says. Obi-Wan cannot stand the condescension in his voice, so he lifts his blade again, high enough to see Master Dooku’s brow raise in refined surprise, illuminated in the haze of blue.

Obi-Wan says nothing, but waits. And Dooku strikes again. This time he is slow. Each attack is deliberate, and Obi-Wan fights against the impulse of rote muscle memory that urges his body to move faster than the master swings. He will not fall for this ploy. He will not anticipate something which may never be. But it is so difficult to tell the difference between the whisper of memory, and the voice of the Force, and sooner than he’d like, he slips, and falls at Dooku’s feet.

Then he rises again, his blade still bright.

He doesn’t wait this time. This time, he strikes first, leaving no time for the master to counter his blows. He runs through the steps of Form One with perfect alignment, but it is only an exercise to the master, and when he has exhausted every basic shape, Dooku blocks him with a parry that throws Obi-Wan to his knees. 

He gets up again.

He closes his eyes. He lasts four strikes and he is back on the floor.

He gets up again.

He gets up again.

Again.

“Enough,” says Dooku, at last. “Do not punish yourself with attempting a feat you are not equal to.”

“I _will_ be,” Obi-Wan says. “I will be equal to it.”

“And how can you be so certain, peregrine?”

“Because,” says Obi-Wan, “I am better than I was yesterday.”

The master’s blade snaps out of existence with a hiss like rainfall on a star. Obi-Wan is left dazzled. 

“You are a young, and foolish boy,” declares Master Dooku from the periphery of a corona. “And that is all you have proved today. Now, back to your quarters before your master summons yet another Council session on your behalf. Goodnight.”

Master Dooku is gone without a backward glance, and Obi-Wan walks the Temple halls in shadow and alone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for  pomiar , who is supremely talented, but takes the time to help me anyway.

* * *

Obi-Wan is summoned to the Council Chambers early.

The meeting is quick, though it cannot be said to be painless. Through it all, Obi-Wan keeps his shoulders straight, his spine stiff, and his hands clasped tight, hidden in the sleeves of his cloak. Coruscant’s sun rises precisely on time, never wavering in its course, and it sits centred in the window, watching him with all the perspicacity of every other eye in the room. He feels the weight of their gazes, but does not flinch. Not when they study him, not when they shake their heads, not when they explain to him kindly, with warm and gentle voices that he is to go away today, and not come back.

“Do you see?” they ask, and though there are many masters present, Obi-Wan cannot be certain who says what for as a Council they speak with one voice. “Do you see that this must be so? That we cannot claim you? That we feared this attachment from the start? That we aimed to provide you with security but instead have left you stunted and mislead? A bantam to the life you surely would desire if we had not so arrogantly interfered? A life which now you must reclaim?”

He does not say that without their interference he would be dead by now, or worse. He does not speak, because he knows that they will only hear what they want, and nothing has ever been his choice, or his desire. Not really. 

Happiness is always temporary. And now, it is gone.

He bows his head, and bows his back in deepest respect to his saviours, and when he leaves the chambers of the High Council of the Jedi Order, he does not look back.

Around him, the Temple carries on as it ever has. There is light, and laughter, and friendship, and fraternity. His presence has not changed this, and he knows that his absence shall not either. The halls are wide. The roof vaults high overhead as though it might uplift the sky itself, and when he arrives at Master Jinn’s quarters he does not hesitate to place his hand upon the keypad because Master Jinn has only ever been accommodating. Master Jinn has a door which admits more than himself. Master Jinn has many empty cups for tea, and two chairs at a table, and two pegs for cloaks at the entrance, and two cushions upon which to sit, and one empty bedroom that never belonged to Obi-Wan Kin’Obi.

He takes a deep breath, and enters in.

The table is waiting for him, and a steaming cup of tea, and, of course, Qui-Gon Jinn, as sedate and stoic as Obi-Wan has ever seen him. Closer than he’d been in the salles, but the bond between them is staticky and thin, like the air before a storm. Obi-Wan can feel the hair on his arms rising.

“There’s first meal for you,” the master says. “If you’re hungry.”

But though Obi-Wan hangs his cloak beside Qui-Gon’s own, he shakes his head, moving towards the little room at the back.

“I haven’t time,” he says. “There’s an air car scheduled to pick me up. I’m expected at the Civil Fosterage building by midday.”

“Surely, then, a quick meal?”

“I can’t be late.”

“The tea -”

“No,” says Obi-Wan, his hand braced against the doorframe. He pours all his strength into his voice, and so cannot bear to face Qui-Gon directly. “Thank you, Master Jinn. But I ought not take up any more of your time.”

“Obi-Wan!” he says, and then he is next to him, his hands grasping Obi-Wan’s shoulders, compelling him to turn to him, and look him in the eye. He waits, as though for Obi-Wan to speak, but Obi-Wan has said his piece, and has nothing left to say.

They stare at each other, until Qui-Gon’s grip weakens, and he steps away. He bows his head and retrieves something from upon the shelf.

“I am sorry to see you go,” he says at last. “I had hoped that I might - anyway. A gift. That you might remember us.”

He extends his hand, and without thought Obi-Wan reaches back with his own, palm up and open. Upon this pedestal, Qui-Gon deposits a small stone. It is smooth, and black struck through with a violent slash of scarlet ore. He turns it over to examine it, the back of it indistinguishable from the front, worn by time into perfect symmetry.

“What is it?” he asks.

“A river stone,” Master Jinn replies. “From my home world.”

There is meaning in it, there must be, but the only thing which comes to Obi-Wan’s head as he studies the stone is an apology.

“I am sorry, Master Jinn,” he says. “For the tournament. For disappointing you. I had only meant to show you that I - that I…Why have you given this to me?”

He has grown several inches in the nearly three years he has been here. Enough so that now, when Qui-Gon kneels to face him they now see eye to eye, but inside he still feels very small. Master Jinn takes his hand in his own, and wraps it up, the stone held within. It is warm, and grows warmer as the master speaks.

“I gave this once to my previous padawan, and now I would like for you to have it.”

His brow draws tight and deep. He tries to be still inside, the way he has been learning. The way he has been shown by Bant, and practiced with Qui-Gon, but now such effort only burns within, matched by the stone in his hand, increasing in intensity so that Obi-Wan can feel it branding itself against his skin.

“I am not a Jedi,” he says, voice cracking like kindling. “I am not a padawan. Why would you give this to me?”

“Obi-Wan -”

“Why wouldn’t you fight for me? Why won’t you _keep_ me?”

His upset boils over, hot tears coursing down his cheeks like water from a pot. He chokes on his tongue as it is wrestled into submission by a desperate sob, escaping from the brave hold of his lips to echo in the space between them. There is no fire in Master Jinn. He slumps backward in defeat.

“I cannot,” he murmurs. “I never told you that I would.”

With no balm to soothe his blazing soul, Obi-Wan’s anger surges forward, an inferno catching on dry wood, and fields with their harvest left to rot.

“Then what was the point?” he demands. “Why take me at all? Why not leave me there instead?”

“To die?” demands Qui-Gon, his temper rising at this callous thought, so similar to that expressed by the Council more than once that perhaps there is some merit in it if it can be reached by such independent means. But no. He cannot accept that. “I could not leave you to suffer in that place. You have a right to life. You have a _right_ to freedom. You have a _right_ to the Force!”

“But you have _not_ the right to choose it for me! And you have,” he cries out. “You have!”

He clenches his hand into a fist, still hot, still burning, and Qui-Gon watches torn between revelation and the absolution of rigid principle. He has never seen Obi-Wan like this, and as such all the words he says are new, and honest, having never been practiced upon anyone else before.

“I thought to _teach_ you,” he insists. “I thought to make you into something stronger than you were. Bigger. Something beyond the slave that you had begun.”

“And what does that now leave me fit for?” Obi-Wan demands, weeping still. “You knew - you _knew_ \- that I would never be a Jedi, but you taught me anyway. You read me philosophy, and you showed me languages, and foreign policy. You had me study history, and culture, and then you went inside of me, and showed me the Force, and you stayed there. And when that was done, you dressed me in the robes of _your_ Order, and put me in _his_ bed, and left me with _his_ ghost and gave me a stone you have always meant for _him!_ I am what you made me, Master Jinn. I am nothing more than a reflection of your _own_ desire, and always have been. _That_ is why you saved me. _That_ is why you taught me. _That_ is why you are sorry to see me go. But it isn’t me that you shall miss. Because I was never truly here. Not to you. And Xanatos was never gone.”

This cannot be true. This cannot be what Obi-Wan thinks, though he has articulated the very thing which all of Qui-Gon’s friends had warned him about. That attachment. That desire to cling to something which is already lost, and whose pursuit has only drawn him further away from what remains, blinding him to what may come again. But it doesn’t feel right. Or complete. Though Obi-Wan strikes true, though he is honest, there is something absent from it, like the dazzling imprint of light which remains upon the eye long after its been shut to it. He is only halfway to understanding when Obi-Wan speaks again.

“I have seen the Force,” he says, lamenting now. “I have touched it. I have felt you all within my head, and I feel the stars inside me now. I will always feel it. I will always be different. You have made me this impossible thing, and it is impossible now for me to be any other. But no...you never lied to me. You never lied. I only fooled myself.”

Obi-Wan’s anger is spent, his heart now turning towards acceptance out of exhaustion, or wisdom, or hope as Qui-Gon watches this little Jedi lift himself up and carry on. He wipes his face, and disappears only for a moment to grab the bag which sits, packed and ready, at the foot of his bed. When he returns, his eyes are clear, and he makes a formal bow.

“Thank you, Master Jinn, for your kindness. Thank you for the stone. Thank you for showing me something greater than myself. I hope that you will not have cause to regret me, and I shall always be grateful to you for saving my life.”

When he tries to speak, his mouth is dry, and he finds he must clear his throat twice to be heard. He bows back, just as deep, and with his eyes still wide and held upon the boy, he says, “My only regret is that I could not make this right.”

Obi-Wan nods, his gaze turning inward, and his mouth pressing into that firm little line of thought which has become so familiar to the Jedi.

“Goodbye, master,” he says.

And then, with his head held high, he leaves Qui-Gon Jinn alone with his two bedrooms, his two chairs, and his two cups of tea now grown cold and bitter.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! THE END! I....I hope that everyone's doing well. Um, I hope that everyone enjoys this.
> 
> I want to extend my thanks, and appreciation, and love for every single one of you who has read this fic, who has followed it, who has binged it, who has bookmarked, binned, or abandoned it. Every interaction has made this so worthwhile, and I am so grateful to have touched so many people.
> 
> That said, I would be remiss if I didn't thank a few wonderful, patient, and talented folx especially.  pomiar,  TeaRex ,  treescape ,  acatbyanyothername ,  outpastthemoat ,  kyber-erso , and [new-anon](https://new-anon.tumblr.com/). They have been my cheerleaders, sounding boards, collaborators, and crisis therapists for nearly a year now. I wouldn't have made it here without them.
> 
> Thanks, all! Come yell at me on tumblr where I am [tessiete](https://tessiete.tumblr.com/)

* * *

Qui-Gon spends his days in solitude, his aspect so grave and somber as to frighten even the boldest of crechelings from his path. There is a cloud about him. Not darkness, but mist, or a kind of fog which shrouds him, and he keeps himself back, separate from the rest of his people. And yet, most of the Jedi who inhabit the Temple cannot be said to be surprised. There are some who hardly notice the difference, as his sorrow seems more a return to form than an aberrance from it. This is the true Qui-Gon Jinn. This is the master they have known. After all, three years is hardly any time when there are those who live for hundreds.

Only a few know better.

Tahl is one. She comes to him in his quarters where he spends his hours idling away over the careful study of ancient texts in lost languages with prophecies already realised and discarded by time. His plants turn brown, and limp, and she rescues them to her rooms one by one until none are left, and the shelves in his apartments are filled with dust. She brings him tea, served clear and the honey grows crystals in the pot. She sits with him, and talks of nothing. She cleans out the little room in the back.

“It is the same as before,” he says one day, as the sun slips below the horizon and evening comes up to meet it. “When Xanatos...it is the same.”

Tahl sighs so quietly that he cannot hear her dismay, and rests her hand against the nape of his neck, burrowing deep beneath the hair. 

“It isn’t,” she says. 

“Isn’t it?” he murmurs. “Another boy lost. Another child failed. Another bright light dimmed and ruined by my careless hand.”

“Obi-Wan is not lost,” she counters. “He is safe. He is free. He has the Force, and so can never be alone. You gave him that.”

“I would have given him more,” he says.

And she says, “I know.”

“And he is gone. It is the same.”

“But you are different.”

He makes no reply, and so she cannot be certain that he’s heard. The shadows grow longer, and the room is dark by the time she leaves.

And so it continues. Hours into days into weeks into months, until it seems as though Obi-Wan had never come at all. Until his presence is no more than a flicker in the corner of an eye, or the shiver of light caught on the hilt of a blade, or the ripple of tea. Qui-Gon tries to catch him sometimes, but he is quick and gone in the turn of a head, or blink of an eye. So instead, he lives with his invisible ghosts.

Yet, after a time, he wearies of their company as well, and so he wanders the halls, a man in search of something.

He does circuits of the Temple, past the salles with their vaulted roofs, and empty galleries, past the commissary where padawans most often meet, past the Halls of Healing, and the Room of a Thousand Fountains he walks, until one day, his feet bring him somewhere he has not been in a long, long time. 

He stops just outside the Archives. And though his gut tells him to move along, the strings of his heart are plucked by some unseen hand, and he is drawn inside, the doors closing behind him like the embrace of sheltering ribs. 

It is quiet on this day. There are only a few Jedi around. Two knights bend low over a text down one aisle, and an ancient master dozes in the sun at the end of the next. Neither parties acknowledge his passage, and he continues in silence until he is brought up short by the sound of laughter - it is laughter he recognises.

There, tucked neatly into a little nook sits an initiate Qui-Gon knows. Her skin flushes faintly pink, her silver eyes widen in mirth, her webbed hands skim over the old flimsi copy of _A Compendium of the Myths of Alsakan and Coruscant_. Bant Eerin is laughing at it. 

He stares for a moment, at this incomprehensible thing, until Bant looks up to see him there. Her laughter dies in her throat, and she scrambles to her feet to greet the master with a proper bow.

“Master Jinn,” she says. “I didn’t see you there. I’m sorry for laughing - I’ll be more quiet, it’s just…”

She trails off. Her fingers flex across the breadth of the book, and the silence between them grows as Qui-Gon thinks of Master Galaaz, and the padawan she drowned. 

“I’m really sorry, master,” says Bant again. “But the story of the Two Knights With Long Memories is very funny.”

“Oh,” he says, at last.

“Have you read it?”

“No,” he says, and then without the permission of his thoughts, his heart says, “Would you tell me about it?”

She grins, and flops back onto her bench to flip the pages open to the appropriate chapter. The illustrations appear, gilded and glorious, and just out of Qui-Gon’s sight, so he steps closer.

“Might I sit with you?” he asks.

“Of course,” she says, and shuffles over. Then, she begins her story. “When they were very young Knight Fix and Knight Faux fell out over an injury done while still in the creche. No one else was there to see it, and so no one could ever really say who was at fault. Neither knight spoke of the incident, too sore to bring it up, but they thought about it often - the story says ‘they sucked at it like a rotten tooth!’ -”

Here, she flips a page to show Qui-Gon the image of two identical men in two identical robes with two rather sour expressions upon their faces. She giggles, and looks to him to see if he is so amused, and he lifts the corner of his lips in a rusty bow to appease her.

She continues, “They thought about it until they were very, very old. In fact, they were the _oldest_ knights to have ever existed, having never advanced into masterhood, and never taking any padawans themselves. They grew so unpleasant, and so distracted by their grudge that eventually, they took no interest in anything or anyone else, and they lived alone.”

Another page, another image of two men living side by side in a single hut, with only a curtain between them, eating of identical meals, and drinking identical drinks.

“Then, one day, Knight Fix fell ill, and only Knight Faux stayed to tend him. He cared for him for many days, coming in the morning and leaving at night, always saying ‘Oh, I shall comfort you today so that I may hate you in good conscience tomorrow,’” she read, running one finger beneath the text. “And every day Knight Fix grew a little stronger, saying ‘I shall eat of your soup, and drink of your wine today, so that I may see your pantry empty and your cellar barren tomorrow,’ and so they continued, until, at last Knight Fix grew well again, and Knight Faux fell ill for tending him.”

She smiles again, her voice growing bright with enthusiasm as her story goes on, and Qui-Gon feels her warmth tingle at the end of each extremity, like pins and needles coming in from the cold.

“Well, Knight Fix couldn’t very well leave his enemy to suffer while still in his debt,” reads Bant, “So he brought soup and wine and comfort until Knight Faux returned to strength. He reaped the rewards of kindness, and so delivered them back in turn, so that soon, all the memories they shared of each other which had begun in hatred, now ended in love. When they realised this, they bowed to one another, and shook hands as friends, saying ‘If I had known the wounds I gave to you would so be put upon me, I should have taken greater care to tend them.’ And out they went, hand in hand having memory of the past, but taking joy in the present, and looking toward the future.”

She thumps the book shut, and grins up at him, her eyes dancing in mirth, and Qui-Gon is caught in the trailing gossamer of her story. He’s silent still, but it is a soft silence and Bant is not afraid.

“That is one of Obi-Wan’s favourites,” she says. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard it before.”

“I might have, once,” says Qui-Gon. “It sounds familiar now. Do you think I might borrow that book?”

“Of course,” she says, and delivers it into his hands without a thought. “But only make sure you tell Master Nu you’ve got it, or she’ll think it’s with me. In case you lose it.”

Qui-Gon fixes her with a stern glance, and Bant kicks her feet.

“Do I look so foolish to you as to risk angering Master Nu?”

She blinks, and cocks her head in consideration. “You don’t appear to be,” she concedes. “But Obi-Wan _did_ say that you’d been banned from the Archives for a year before.”

“Did he?”

“And that he used to come here to find books for you, since you couldn’t come on your own.”

“Ah,” says Qui-Gon. He strokes the cover of the book with great reverence, and confesses something to Bant he has yet to tell anyone else. “I miss him,” he says, then nothing else.

Bant nods, her smile turning into a frown. “Me, too. But I think it’s important to remember he isn’t gone, just because he isn’t here, you know?”

“I don’t think I do,” says Qui-Gon, curious now, to hear how a child has reconciled such loss. “Teach me.”

“Well,” she says. “I still feel him. He’s still inside me. He’s there when I play with Garen, and Reeft, reminding them to be a little less rough. He’s there when I spar with Bruck, so that he remembers to lose gracefully when he’d rather just win. He’s there in class, when Siri puts up her hand, and tells her to think about things from someone else’s point of view. He’s with me, making me brave enough to try things even when I think I’ll fail. He hasn’t _truly_ gone. Have you ever meditated with him before?”

“I have.”

“It’s like that,” she says. “How, in the beginning he was all wrapped up, and you had to go _looking_ for the Light. Well, I think that’s maybe what being a Jedi is. The looking. And he showed me how to do that. Does that make sense?”

Qui-Gon lifts his head, and regards the young initiate with a strange, and searching look. He nods. 

“It does,” he says. “And I think that you will one day make an excellent Jedi, Master Eerin. I shall remember to tell Master Nu I’ve taken your book.”

And with that, he stands and bows to the girl before leaving the Archives, making sure to check out with Jocasta Nu, first.

That night, he opens the door to the empty bedroom, and settles himself atop the narrow pallet, putting his back to the wall. He opens the book of myths, and begins to read aloud, starting at the beginning. He reads until it is dark. He reads all night, until the shadows recede and the sunlight begins to peek in, lifting the veil of darkness to crowd close and hear his voice, and when he reaches the end, his voice hoarse, and his lips dry, he looks up to find that he is alone. There are no ghosts in here. Only himself, the book, and the light.

And he is at peace.

Time passes, as it is wont to do. Then, one day, a year or so later - Qui-Gon cannot be sure, no longer marking out his days in such a rigid, unforgiving count as he had before - but sometime when the leaves of the berrinlark trees have turned over to a deep, deep green, and the diplomatic sun of Coruscant’s sky shines a charming, and most respectable circlet of gold, he is summoned to the Council Chambers, again.

But when he arrives, there are no masters there. Only a stranger in a long cloak, with long copper hair, and clear starlit eyes. He stands, frozen, until the stranger speaks.

“Master Jinn,” he says. “Do you not recognise me?”

It is Obi-Wan. _It is Obi-Wan_. And he stands so sure, and upright that Qui-Gon finds himself falling to his knees. He presses his forehead to the floor, and throws his arms out before him.

“Obi-Wan,” he says. The name trips across his lips, so familiar and beloved, for he has said it many times in the past few months, no longer weighed down by the memory of loss. But here, _now_ , it resounds through the space like a hymn. 

The boy before him laughs.

“No, no,” he says. “Don’t do that. I hope I haven’t frightened you too badly - I am not a ghost.”

“Never that,” says Qui-Gon as he rears back onto his knees. He shuffles forth, as Obi-Wan steps nearer still, and reaches out. He has grown, he notes, since they last met. No longer does he meet him eye to eye from where he kneels, but instead he must look up. He smiles. “You look -”

“- Different?” asks Obi-Wan. “They do not dress in Initiate whites at the foster centre.”

“- Well,” Qui-Gon corrects. “You look strong. Healthy. You look happy.”

At this, Obi-Wan reaches out to touch the end of a lock of Qui-Gon’s hair.

“And so do you,” he says, only the furrow between his brows betraying any doubt.

“I am,” Qui-Gon affirms. “But happier still to see you. Why are you here?”

Obi-Wan smiles - a flash of joy leaping across his face like sunlight from an ancient shield. It is gone just as quickly, as his pension for thoughtfulness asserts itself, once more the king of his expression. “Ever questioning, master,” he says. “I told them you’d rather know before I came.”

“Them?”

“The Council,” he says. “It is with their permission I am here today.”

“You sought their permission for a visitation? Why? Have you -”

“I have not,” he says. “And I won’t be - not like that. But I needed to speak to you, first.”

Qui-Gon makes no move, afraid that he may startle Obi-Wan, who rolls his shoulders, and lifts his chin in preparation for some great feat. But there, just tucked within his sleeve, Qui-Gon can see his fingers tug at a thread pulled loose for this purpose, and smiles to find the same boy he knew before.

“What is it, little bird? Anything you might have to say, and I will listen.”

“I wish to apologise -”

“Anything but _that_ -”

“No, Master Jinn,” he says, voice firm. “I must. A year ago I was very unfair to you, and I want you to know that I have thought of you often, and thought on what you taught me, and I could not have asked for a better saviour. You have guided me well since then.”

“I am no saviour,” replies Qui-Gon. “And you were right to censure me. I was arrogant, and proud, and clinging to the bitterness of my past, and though I was often told so, I could not - I _would_ not - see it. You suffered for my weaknesses, and I am sorry to have put you through it. But I cannot regret taking you from that place. And I cannot regret seeing you now - so wise, and grown. You have saved yourself, Obi-Wan Kin’Obi, and you have shown me the way as well.”

“Then perhaps…” he says, then trails off to look over the prospect of Coruscant. 

“Perhaps what?”

Obi-Wan turns to him again. “They say the pairing is right when the student teaches the master,” he says. “I have been studying the texts, and I have taken my lessons well from you. I know you fought for me. I know you petitioned the Council many times. I know there was resistance, and my going away was never your fault. I know you tried.” A smirk, cunning and coy tugs at his lips, catching Qui-Gon’s eyes from the corner of his own. “But as Master Yoda says, ‘there is no try,’ and so I have succeeded.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, but I am uncertain of your aim. Do you come here intending to petition the Council once again?”

“I do not,” he says. 

“Then why?”

“I come to take a master.”

And Qui-Gon is struck quite dumb with incomprehension, which tumbles quickly into wild hope, and then a restless fear.

“Do you know, Master Dooku is not nearly so formidable as he pretends? Not nearly so formidable as Master Nu, for instance. She was the first to come to my cause. She’s the one who gave me that first book, who _trusted_ me to know my path. Master Yoda, too, once he understood me. After that, it was all very simple. Master Poof drafted the articles, and Master Rancisis spoke to the very Chancellor on my behalf. I am free, at last,” he says. “And I choose to be a Jedi.”

He comes close, until he is standing right before Qui-Gon, gazing down, and then lowering himself to kneel, then bow with great respect.

“And I know who I would choose to guide me,” he says, his eyes cast down and humbled, "If the choice were only mine. But it is not. So I must ask - but only say yes if you want me. Master Jinn, would you do me the honour of taking me as your apprentice? Will you show me the path, and lead my steps, and teach me the ways of the Force?”

The three-fold path lies before him, and Qui-Gon Jinn doesn’t hesitate.

He takes the boy because, in the end, it’s the only thing to do. 


End file.
